In an Instant

by Suzanne Redfearn

Regret is a tough emotion to live with, impossible to move on from, because what’s done is done. Only delusion can protect you from it, somehow altering history into something easier to accept, and my mom is not capable of delusion.

Now that I’m dead, I realize how awful people are to each other, how a pervasive cynicism exists in most of us that stops us from seeing the best parts of one another.

Don’t just try to be happy when you think of me—be happy. Look at the ocean and smile. Inhale the scent and celebrate. Remember me. Remember that I was never sad for more than a day, rarely for more than an hour. Remember the amazing times we had and what a goofball I was. Remember that I was scared of anything with more than four legs but fearless of adventure. Remember. Carry me inside you as a light that brightens your world and makes everything better. I don’t want to be a void, a hole, a shadow. REMEMBER ME!

Are we born with our strength? If so, then should we condemn those who don’t have it?

Remember me, I scream. Celebrate me. Do not box me up and throw me away. Stop avoiding every memory of who I was. I lived, and I do not want to only be recognized for my premature death. That was only the end. Before that was sixteen years of life—good, bad, funny, fun. Finn.

I wonder about this, about whether our humanity is determined more by circumstance than conscience, and if any of us if backed into a corner can change.

perhaps in all of us there is a base instinct for self-preservation, a feral nature, that when tested makes us capable of things we never believed ourselves capable of.

More was revealed in that single tragic night than most people reveal in a lifetime.

“How do I get past it?” she mumbles, not necessarily to him. Hate. Hurt. Guilt. And grief. So much of it that I feel its thickness and its weight, like she is drowning and can’t breathe. “A single step at a time,” the man says, speaking from some profound experience of his own and with deep understanding, making me wonder if all pain might be the same regardless of its origin. “You’re still here,” he goes on. “So there’s not really a choice. An inch, a foot, not necessarily in the right direction, but onward nonetheless.” My mom shudders a deep breath, looks up at him. “Until eventually,” he says, “the present becomes the past, and you are somewhere else altogether, hopefully in a better place than you are today.”

You only live once, and no one has any idea how long that once is going to be, so grab on tight and hold on for the ride and don’t worry about it and don’t look back.

Closing my eyes, I send a prayer of love and gratitude to the best friend a girl could have. You are the most remarkable dung beetle in the world, I say with a smile. The two of us have used the compliment for years, ever since we discovered that the insects are the strongest animals on the planet. I wish I could be here to see all the things you are going to do. I stop and think about it, trying to wrangle a vision of what her future might hold, but I cannot see it; too many possibilities exist. So instead I say, Soar, Mo, reach for the stars or the moon or another universe altogether, and shine so bright you blind everyone around you, and though I am gone, carry me with you, but only as lightness and never as weight . . .

Every journey begins with a single step. Clear your mind of can’t. Fear is what stops you; courage is what keeps you going.”

Anyone who doesn’t believe in chemistry is wrong. And anyone who settles for less sells themselves short. The air is absolutely electrified, pheromones flying everywhere. Now there’s a great word—pheromones. The very sound of it makes you want to kiss someone.

I’ve always believed regret is the most difficult emotion to live with, but in order to have regret, you need to have a conscience: an interesting paradox that allows the worst of us to suffer the least in the aftermath of wrongdoing.