Page 1 of Until Next Time
1
Dawsen
October 30th
I hate this day already and I haven’t even pulled the covers from my face yet. The 30th of October is one I’d like to forget entirely, just skip right over it. That would be the most ideal situation for me. Because right now all I feel is a sinking pit in my stomach—the anniversary of my mother’s death. Which makes me wonder who’s bright idea it was to use the wordanniversaryto mark such a date. Usually that word is associated with celebration and I don’t know—something a lot fucking better than this. Because this doesn’t feel like some joyous occasion at all.
I hear a loud buzzing sound coming from the bedside table and I’d bet money it’s River with his annual “Good Morning, I’msorry your mom is dead” text message. I reach across to grab it, eyes adjusting to the bright screen and sure enough—It’s River.
River: Hey man. Up for a beer later?
Me:Ahh, maybe.
River:Don’t be a mopey asshole all day.
Me:Wow… real nice bro. You could use some sensitivity training.
River:Tough love dude. She’d want you to not ruin a perfectly good day.
River:The Brick, tonight, 7:00.
Me:Fine. See ya there, dickhead.
River had been my best friend for as long as I could remember. He was the first friend I ever made rolling into Saddlebrooke Elementary.
I’ll never forget his messy light brown hair that I don’t think he bothered to brush, and the full baseball uniform he wore on the first day of school. He chose the seat right next to mine, and practically forced me to look through his entire baseball card collection. He basically forced his friendship on me too, and I wasn’t really in a place to turn down a friend. So here we are, in our 30s and he’s pretty much forced me into having a beer with him on this shitty day. Because he’s a good friend. And he knows that’s what I need. River Banks was a thoughtful asshole, and I was grateful for him.
I toss my phone across the bed and throw the covers off my body. I decide it’s time to stop moping and pull my shit together because as much as this day sucks for me, it’s seeing my dad that kills me.
My parents had the kind of love people write books and make movies about—hell, I think the word‘enchanted’was thought up by my dad to properly express how he felt about my mom—feelsabout my mom. So yeah, double punch to the gut seeing him today.
I’ve made it a sort of tradition to stay with my dad every year on the eve of the accident. Making sure my dad didn’t wake up in this house alone felt like the only tangible way I knew how to bring him comfort. It still feels so fresh, like the wound just won’t fully scab over.
I’ve started the tradition of filling his schedule up with a whole bunch of distracting errands and activities and whatever random shit I can think of that will get him out of his head for a bit. It’s good for both of us, we don’t talk about anything, we just exist together.
In my short time of grieving, one of the quick things I’ve learned is that shared suffering creates strong bonds. The companionship of someone who knows exactly what you’re going through is like a numbing salve of it’s own.
I press my palms into my eyes and try to wake myself up. I need coffee.
“Never start any day without a proper cup of coffee.”That’s kind of an unspoken Jones Family rule. My parents met each other at a coffee shop, so you can probably guess the rest of that love story cliche. It’s adorable… sickening honestly, and it’s sothem.
So, coffee it is.
I pull myself to my feet, grab the pair of grey sweatpants that are hung over the back of the leather armchair near mychildhood bed. I pull them on, and I don’t bother with a shirt. I pad over to the door where I can hear the faint hum of jazz music playing over the speakers in the living room.
Another Jones Family “rule”—jazz music to accompany the mandatory morning coffee to set the tone of the day. Peaceful, relaxing and it gets the creative juices flowing. Sounds like hippy dippy bullshit, but I think my mom was right, because that morning jazz does make it really hard to have a bad day.
I open the bedroom door to see my dad sitting in his usual spot on the worn in leather sofa. Yellow, orange, and teal throw pillows with tassels and woodland creatures wearing party hats embroidered on them surround him while he holds a diner mug with a mushroom painted on it.
I can see the steam rising from his cup while he has his phone in the other hand resting on the arm of the sofa. He’s giggling like a little boy.
“Dawsen. Good Morning Bud! You have got to see these videos I found. No idea how I came across them, but man, this shit is hilarious.” He says, without looking up, his mouth still pinned into a huge smile.
My dad can barely send a text, let alone figure out social media.
“What are you watching and how, and… I have so many questions…” I say, trying to orient myself.
“Oh, well I decided to get on the ol’ social media apps or whatever they’re called. Instagram? They’ve got like an endless amount of videos. It feels like I’ve been scrolling forever.” He says it so animated, like he’s just discovered the meaning of life itself.
