We never saw your door but if we did there’d be blood stains, black sheets, carved warnings. And your bathroom mirror might be all lipstick, smudges and smears, threatening messages, that you’d not heed because you use your laptop until the last minute, scream at the screen when it dies despite five minute warnings and one click saves.
We expect eternity for us and our parents.
So when you die we know you were marked although we never saw it. We scroll back through moments like episode descriptions in TV guides, on websites, deciphering what we missed, when we missed it. We can’t claw you back how we can ex-girl and boyfriends, the way we woo old friends on Facebook and new ones through work, on buses, and our success rates for those things aren’t remarkable or notable so resurrecting you is a bet we’d not place, a lucky dip with little hope in. Everything we know of gambling we learnt from Brad Pitt in life and then in movies in that order because public mistakes are more interesting than fiction.
And when you die we don’t realise at first. We savour silence like it’s moments we’re happy to end when you walk in. But you don’t. Raising the dead’s a horror movie, Bible story, medical miracle or everyday occurrence, but you’re declared dead, you were declared it; the epitome, hopeless.