Page 39 of Love at a Funeral and Other Awkward Conversations

“Hey.” He tips my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes, so gentle I don’t deserve it. He drags his thumb over my jaw. “Try not to stress out about it. If you don’t want to do it, don’t. If you want to, then do it. You’ll have more than enough help, according to the email.”

I hop up, avoiding any more physical contact with him, and grab my things then give Gracie a pat. “I’m going to head out.”

“I thought you had time before work?”

Slinging my purse over my shoulder, I keep my eyes anywhere but on his because I don’t want him to know how much he or this email have affected me. “I’ll talk to you later.”

When I shuffle into the kitchen at home, Mom is drinking coffee and eating a doughnut. She’s dressed in an old sweatshirt and sweatpants, which has become her standard form of attire. However, she smiles when she sees me, and I know she must’ve recently taken one of her antidepressants.

“Good day?” I ask, dropping into the chair across from her at the table.

She nods. “I’m making meatloaf and mashed potatoes for dinner.”

“Okay. I’m closing tonight, so I won’t be home to eat.”

“There’ll be plenty of leftovers,” she says, except with the way she’s been eating her emotions lately, the leftovers won’t last very long. I am not the model for perfect coping mechanisms, but the dramatic swing of extremes over the past few months can’t be healthy for her.

“Maybe we can go for a walk one of these days. The weather’s been great lately.”

She doesn’t acknowledge me, not that I expect her to agree to go. Since our last outing into the world ended in a trip to the ER, she’s refused to go any farther than the backyard or mailbox at the front of the house.

“Sunshine might do you some good,” I say, but she only sips her coffee. I tuck my hair behind my ears, the bangs my mother hated so much grown out now. “I got an email today from Mr. Alvarado.”

Mom gazes at me passively.

“He was Ray’s principal.”

She finishes off the doughnut.

“He wants me to do some kind of fundraiser in Ray’s name.”

“Oh?”

“What do you think?”

“I think that would be lovely,” she says, showing real signs of life for the first time in a long time, and the small glint in her eyes is the final nail in this coffin. I have to do this. Not for me, but for everyone else.

How novel.

APRIL 24

I had a whole other message typed up ready to post. It was about Persephone and Hades and symbolism, and a really great use of my Greek mythology minor, but my day and mind were hijacked by something unexpected. That’s the pattern with me—I have plans, I’m moving forward, and then there’s a roadblock and I stumble. A punishment from the gods.

I am Sisyphus pushing the boulder up the hill every day.

Albert Camus argued that only when Sisyphus accepts the absurdity of his doomed fate, can he truly be freed of it. Maybe that’s the key for me too. I have to accept that this will be my life from now on. I will think I’ve found my way out of grief, only to be knocked back into the middle of it. Maybe the fate of a grieving person is to never stop grieving, therefore I should stop trying. I only need to live my life day-by-day, giving in to it in order to accept it.

Is that the key to successfully making my way through this? Did I just win the game? I’m not sure. For now, though, I will continue to push the boulder. These ramblings have been brought to you by a confused, absurd antihero, The Myth of Cassandra St. George.

QOTD: Do you ever feel like Sisyphus? What’s your boulder?

#Grief #RaymondStGeorge #GreekMythology #Sisyphus #Persephone #ZeusSaveMe #IGraduatedCollegeAndAllIGotWereHighInterestLoans

CHAPTER 15

The little pizza place where we decided to meet isn’t fancy, but I still bounce my leg up and down while I wait for Mr. Alvarado. I play with the napkin holder, bopping it back and forth, second-guessing if I should have agreed to this.

A bell over the door chimes, and I turn my head in its direction, like I’ve done each time it’s sounded. But he’s finally arrived, in a salmon-colored polo shirt and jeans. He’s younger than I expected, with dark, tanned skin and a touch of salt-and-pepper by his temples. He greets me with a grin and open arms. “Cassandra, it’s so nice to see you.”

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