Just Last Night

by Mhairi McFarlane

Someone once said to me birth was the most ordinary and extraordinary thing you’ll ever experience, simultaneously, and death is the same. The fact of yours sits there, implacably, being so banal and so mind-blowingly strange at the same time. It will always be like this, I have come to realize. The ache is permanent, it must be accommodated. It’s part of my body now. I keep waiting to get past it. To “move on,” to absorb it, to set it aside, to make sense of it, to process it. For it to be, somehow, “behind” me. What next? I keep thinking, with a pain in my stomach like it’s been slit open. And—there is no next, stupid. That’s the point. Someone has gone, forever, and you have to stop waiting for them to come back. Without realizing it, you are stuck on pause, as if their not being here might change. This is what I never knew about loss—it’s also about what you gain. You carry a weight that you never had before. It’s never behind you. It’s alongside you. “Forever”: people say it in wedding vows all the time like they understand what it means, but actual forever is fucking huge.