Memories Sarah M. ’24 Tuesday, March 20th I pressed snooze on my digital alarm clock and stared blankly at the ceiling, eyes puffy and cheeks tearstained. I continued to believe it was all a dream, that I would wake up one day and he’d be alive. So far, nineteen days had passed, and it felt nothing short of a lifetime. I felt like a black hole; gloomy, empty, and swindling the life of everything around me. Someone on autopilot just trying to make it through the day somehow. Someone who desperately wanted to stay in bed, unbothered and peaceful, sleeping the pain away. Dragging myself out of bed eventually, I staggered to the mahogany dresser that took up three fourths of the closet of the room I inhabited. Glancing into my framed mirror, which had paint chipping off in every direction, I noticed my appearance for the first time in almost three weeks. My face was red, shadowy ovals occupying the hollows underneath my eyes. It appeared that I had aged thirty years from that dewy March morning. Yet again, the lack of sleep was not helping my complexion in the least. The shrinks told me it would stop hurting after a while, that I would learn to live without my father and grief is just a stage. “It will get worse before it gets better,” they would say, fake smiles plastered on their faces. Shockingly of course, I had listened to them in the beginning. But as the days continued, their advice proved incomplete. The days only became longer, and the nights became lonelier. Accepting this, I longed to figure out a way to coexist with my numbing grief. So far, my plights for ignorance had proven as unsuccessful as the advice of particular mental health professionals. “Audrey!” my mother shrieked from the kitchen, breaking my thoughts and leading me to open the door of my room. “The bus will be here in twenty minutes! You better be ready. No more missing school!” My mother, unfortunately, had not lost her hope in these certain specialists she made sure we saw at least twice weekly. Rolling my eyes, I slipped into my school uniform, an itchy white blouse and hideous emerald plaid skirt, along with a sweater for the still chilly, not quite spring weather. I knew I would look and feel much better in the old gray sweatpants and holey t-shirt I had been wearing for weeks. They were my father’s, and I was afraid if I washed them, I would be washing away a part of him as well. Trudging down the steps, I snatched an apple from the pantry and waltzed out the door, waving to my mother passingly. She was a petite woman, her face once so young and beautiful. Now it was the same as mine, worn and grief stricken.
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