The Corpse And The Crazy

Swan Song

"So many kinds of sorrow,

I won't name them all.

But one, the parting and separating.

And not the cutting hurts so much,

but being cut off."

-Marie Vasalis (Sotto Voce) Translation

It has been five years since she disappeared. Every day, she stays in our minds, but we need to move on. She left us. We don't know how, we don't know why, but we know that she's gone. And we need to live with that. 

I sit up in our bed. I look at his chest, slowly rising and falling, his mouth slightly open. He had snored the entire night, but I've gotten used to it over the years. I spend a moment watching him. His hair is almost fully white now, with only little specks of his former red left. 

I brush a strand of hair from his face before going downstairs to brew us a cup of coffee. The sound of the machine starting is comforting. It's cloudy outside today. The dinner table still has her chair. While the other two are covered by either coats or bags, hers stays empty, gathering dust. It's like we expect her to be home any second. And I suppose we do, in a way. 

I pour the steaming coffee into two mugs and go back upstairs. My husband has already been woken up by me getting up, and is currently getting dressed. He smiles when I hand him the cup and presses a kiss on my cheek. 

It's Saturday, so we're both off work and we're taking our sweet time to get started.

'Don't forget to fix the faucet,' I tell him while picking out my outfit for the day with my cup of coffee in my hand. 

He chuckles, 'how often will you remind me of that?' 

'Probably as often as it keeps me awake at night,' I reply. 

Before he gets to make a sarcastic remark, I hear a knock on the door. 'Did you hear that?'

He looks up from his phone, 'hmm?' 

'The door, I heard a knock...' I remain quiet, listening. 

'What? That can't be right, it's 8 o'clock on a Saturday morning.'

'I'll go look. It's probably nothing.' I grab my robe and make my way downstairs again. When I get to the hallway, I can't see much through the glass window pane, as it's frosted glass.

But I can see something move. Or rather, I can see something fall. I put my cup down on the table, and run to the door. 

I struggle to open it, but when I do, she collapses. Despite the blood, despite the dirt and despite not having seen her for years, I recognize her in an instance of a second. That's my daughter. That's my Julia. 

I scream, sinking to my knees beside her. I cup her face with my hands, and thankfully I can see her opening her eyes. 

Tears begin to flow, and my sight of her blurs. But I know her, she's finally come home. I get her on my lap and hug her tightly. I can't let her go now. I don't know what happened to her all of those years, I don't know how she came home now. 

Horrible thoughts terrorize my brain, but I push them away. She's home now. It's okay, it will all be okay. 

My husband runs down the stairs. Confused by what was happening, he kneels down beside me and breaks out into tears, too. Once again, after a very long time, we're reunited. 

After what seems like an eternity, she starts to talk. 'Mom...' her voice breaks, 'Dad... I made it...I finally made it home.' 

'Yes, Julia, you're here now, you're safe with us,' I mutter. 

It's obvious that she suffered, that she has gone through a lot. I don't even want to know where the blood is from. Right now, I want to hug her, and I want to know that she's finally returned home. 

And I want to cry out, I want to sing. I want to sing the swan song of our suffering. The beautiful end of it all. So it can be put away and die out. 

Because our Julia finally made it home. 

And there is nothing else in the world I care about more. 

"Her heart is played

like well worn strings; 

in her eyes

the sadness sings; 

of one who was destined, 

for better things."

-Lang Leav (Swan Song)