Out of Love

by Hazel Hayes

“You can’t fail at a relationship. That’s like getting off a roller coaster and saying you failed because the ride is over. Things end. That doesn’t mean the experience wasn’t worth it.” “I’m not sure it was worth it, Maya. What did I get out of it?” “You got what you needed,” she said. “And then one day it wasn’t what you needed anymore.”

stop and notice my feelings instead of being overwhelmed by them.

“Crazy is the space between what they tell you and what you know is true.”

My usual information-gathering instinct was useless in this case—no matter how much I learned about death, she’d still be gone and I’d still be grieving—and so, having rejected religion at a young age, I found myself wishing for the comfort blanket that is faith.

I wanted to be able to blindly believe in something that might make me feel better, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it because I feel much the same about the Church as I do about dead bodies—that they can both provide consolation, but only if you’re willing to ignore some harsh truths. I find no more comfort in whispering in a dead person’s ear than I do in whispering to a made-up God in the dark. Though sometimes I envy the fools who can.

Suddenly I’m reminded of a dream I had last night; I was trying to collect the ocean in jars. I ran the length of the shoreline with a jar in one hand and a lid in the other, scooping and twisting, scooping and twisting. Piling them high on the sand. But there weren’t enough jars.