Goodbye, Vitamin

by Rachel Khong

It was grotesque, the way I kept trying to save that relationship. Like trying to tuck an elephant into pants.

What imperfect carriers of love we are, and what imperfect givers. That the reasons we can care for one another can have nothing to do with the person cared for. That it has only to do with who we were around that person—what we felt about that person. Here’s the fear: she gave to us, and we took from her, until she disappeared.

If I were you is something I’ve never really understood. Why say, “If I were you”? Why say, “If I were you,” when the problem is you’re not me? I wish people would say, “Since I am me,” followed by whatever advice it is they have.

It’s a terminal disease, all the literature keeps saying. “But isn’t everything terminal?” is what I say to nobody, out loud.