Things Only Heaven Can Fix

PART ONE

I stand inside a metal box, I and the one whose face resembles our mother’s. We say nothing. Because there is nothing to say. We look at our shoes. At buttons with numbers. And our blurry reflection on brushed steel.

The elevator doors open to the smell of sterilization and sickness. Instantly a flood of images rush back to me: A body laying eerily still on a bed of white linens. Snow falling through a window. A sharp, cold pane on my fingertips.

Florescent lights line the hallway with a brightness that strains the eyes. And yet it feels so dark.
Coughing. Beeping machines. Wheels grinding along. Blank faces looking back at me. The soles of my shoes squeak on the white tile floor. I am dragging my feet. We’ve driven six hours to do this – to find some kind of redemption in the ashes - but the entire length of that trip I’d wanted to turn the car around and forget this.

There is no turning back now.
Counting numbers upon doors, it comes closer. We find our way, and yet I feel more lost with each step.

He is written on the door. A small whiteboard with black marker spells out the letters of a name we have not spoken since he killed us with his words and walked away.
In a short time that name will be erased. Expunged.
The thought lingers in my mind, numbly, for a moment.

He loved me once. I thought. He showered me with affection and spoiled me with gifts. (His were always my favorite, if only because they were from him.) Somewhere, all the way back in that distant place, there was laughter. Games. Jokes.
But not anymore. I cannot even reach far enough back to hear its echo. It is long gone.
Bitterness has choked it out.
Words upon actions… upon silence… have dug a great chasm here. I fear I cannot cross it.

The heavy door is before me.
I am keenly aware of my humanity, standing here. Of the breath in my lungs. Of my pounding heart. My utter weakness. Every pore seems to hum with hyper awareness of my limitations. I am sure I cannot do this.

Still, somehow, I breathe a prayer. And I step over the threshold.
…