Saving Eileen

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄

There's a saying that my father always used when misfortune occured: "Why do we fall? So we can learn to pick ourselves up higher than before." In the midst of great struggle, a person can gather the strength to stand and push through.

In the light of my current tide of strife, it only strengthened the pull of anguish in my chest.

The downpour of the rain was fitting as the pallbearers carried my father's casket to his burial spot. The dozens of people who came — most from the force — scattered to leave. Those officers closest to him — who weren't pallbearers — approached me, offering futile words of condolence. It was the thought that counted, after all.

The graveyard was depressing; rows and rows of grey stones of various sizes and shapes tossed about. How else did one describe a graveyard except. . . dead?

The wind picked up, causing the bottom of my black dress to rise. I held the folded flag to my chest like a vice; an anchor, to keep me present. In one hand the umbrella and a bouquet of flowers in the other as I lingered behind. Behind me, I heard my estranged aunt talking.

"Despite the circumstance, the service was beautiful," she said, voice strained. "It's just terrible that we had to meet under these circumstances."

Familiar footfalls and an even more familiar voice answered, "I'm just sorry that this even happened. It's hard to believe he's really gone. I still find myself looking around trying to find him. I keep expecting to hear one of his horrible jokes." The laugh that followed was empty, hollow.

My grip on the umbrella tightened. His words were a bitter truth to swallow. It was almost a week now and everywhere I looked, there was a reminder.

I stepped into the kitchen and expected him to be making his coffee; I expected to smell that cologne he swears was worth it; every building and street corner reminded me of one of a million memories over sixteen years.

I looked and realized all over again he wasn't there anymore. Each time it happened, the harder it got to breathe as I began to drown inside. I was a dead girl walking.

As they lowered him, the subject shifted. "How is she doing?" Mason asked, voice lowered as if trying to not be overheard. He never mastered whispering. "Has she said anything to you?

"No. It's been several days and. . ." Aunt Deborah sighed. "I'm worried. It's hard to find the words, as horrible as that sounds."

Someone approached from behind. Based on the familiar heaviness of the strides, it was Mason, my dad's partner.

"Hey Ellie," he greeted, struggling where to put his hand for a few moments before it fell to his side. "I want you to know that we're here for you if you wanna talk. If. . ." He cleared his throat, fighting back his tears, his auburn hair looked more brown right now. "Adriana wanted to come, but she was throwing up this morning. But she wanted to come. She said she'd call you later."