We All Want Impossible Things

by Catherine Newman

“I feel like I’m mad at you, but also like this might not be your fault,”

The inevitability of Edi’s death was like a crumpled dollar bill my brain kept spitting back out.

If you’re ever sending anyone flowers, you should know that carnations and mums last forever. Lilacs and irises are basically dead by the time they arrive. Roses can go either way. Hydrangeas go quickly, but on the sly—they still look pretty, even after they’re dry as paper.

Edi’s memory is like the backup hard drive for mine, and I have that same crashing, crushing feeling you have when the beach ball on your computer starts spinning.

“I know. Not knowing seems to be all I know anymore.”

If there’s a metaphor for our friendship, it might be this. The blind faith. The absolute dependability. The love like a compass, its north always true.

I was like a tragic squid, sending out clouds of poisonous ink and crying, Why won’t you see me? Why can’t you find me?

“Breathe in acceptance,” Laura says. “Breathe out peace.”

He tells us that a minute after we all left, as he was sitting with Edi, he’d gotten a text from Dash. Did Mom die? It was after two in the morning. When he called back, Dash absorbed the news quietly, then explained that Edi had shaken him awake and kissed him, held him in her arms before disappearing again. “Shit,” I say. “That’s crazy.” “I know,” Jude says. “She stopped to see Dash on her way out,” I say. “I love that.”

“Life is messy. I certainly don’t expect tidiness from yours or anybody else’s.”