Madi’s Reviews > Home Is Where the Bodies Are > Status Update

Even though she’s my older sister, it hasn’t felt that way in a long time. Age doesn’t always mean maturity. Sometimes it just means they’ve spent more time on earth, and the only things to show for it are diminished bones and skin etched with deep ridges. Not wisdom. Not value, just time.

But sometimes we’re not the people we want to be. We just are.

I pass by medical staff and patients. Every one of them looks tired, and I don’t believe it’s from a lack of sleep. I think they’re tired of life. Sometimes life gets old before we do.

It’s nearly impossible to hide anything from Beth. She was the first one to even suspect my addiction.

[…]

My mother knew next, but it took her longer. Parents have a blind spot for their children.

I don’t want to cry. But it feels like I have to, like I don’t have a choice in the matter. I read about crying once, when I couldn’t stop after Dad left. I wanted to know why it happens or what the point of it is. What I learned is that no one knows for sure. One theory is that it tells others we’re in pain, triggering a human connection.

The flapping butterflies are gone from my stomach, the ones that Brian always conjures up. In their place is a sinking feeling, a warning that something bad is about to happen. I know this because I’ve felt it before . . .

That’s how he and I are—a misshapen thing that was once made with love and molded to perfection. Even the most perfect things crumble under pressure.

Addiction is exhausting for both the users and the ones they use.

Death reminds us that life isn’t infinite and that one day, our time will come too. We pause to listen to that reminder, to acknowledge it, to show it the respect it demands, and then we spread out into the world like pappi on a dying dandelion, waiting for it to call us again, hoping the next call will be to gather, rather than to be gathered around.
Knock, knock.
Don’t worry. It’s not for you...this time.


[2/2]

Nothing brings people together better than death. It’s like the sound of a high-pitched whistle for a dog that has strayed from its owner. When it happens, they always come.


[1/2]