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    What Grief Has Made, Part Five

    Story written on December 30, 2006 by windrider.
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    28 votes, average: 2.29 out of 528 votes, average: 2.29 out of 528 votes, average: 2.29 out of 528 votes, average: 2.29 out of 528 votes, average: 2.29 out of 5 (28 votes, average: 2.29 out of 5)
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    Number of Comments: 1
    Words: 563
    Story Shortlink: https://lesfan.com/?p=63790
    Author Notes:

    Shane’s invitation

    Between wanting and having, needing and getting, there is a chasm of expectation that is never bridged.

    When do we become what we are not now?
    How does that happen?
    How do we know what we are, who we are to become?

    Shane had watched the pending implosion between Marina and Jenny, and envied them. There was a kind of rhythmic certainty driving them along their disastrous path. After all, if your train is going to go off the tracks, isn’t it better to be driven by desire than fear?

    But her own? How could she not have seen it coming? Where were her instincts, if not about Cherie, at least about Clea — how far she would go to get even with Shane for not being what she wanted, not giving her what she wanted? The one time she tried to do the decent principled thing instead of falling into the sack, it had cost her the one thing she had that she actually cared about.

    Her head hurt from all the thinking and wondering and doubting, and the last thing she wanted out here was company. She pulled into the parking lot, drive past a pair of lone cars parked a couple hundred yards apart. She pulled her truck into a spot near the seawall, climbed out, tucked her head into the hood of her sweatshirt and walked very fast, as if late for something or someone. In truth, she had no particular place to go, but she didn’t want to get caught not going there.

    She climbed the wall, sat down heavily, swung her legs out, kicking an odd rhythm against the quarried block stone while she reached into her pocket, fished around the glassine packets, hauled out her a pack of cigarettes and lit one, drawing the smoke deep into her lungs, letting it drift out of her mouth with her tired breath. For a long time, she sat on the seawall, smoked and flipped cigarettes over the deep blue surf, trailing ash and sparks like meteors.

    The words of a Texas poet niggled at her memory: “If I don’t cover up my heart with both hands, just anybody could pick it up.”


    She used to live by that rule. But she’d forgotten it, Cherie had picked up her heart, and there was no getting it back. There was just a gaping hole pouring out everything good and noble and kind in her that Cherie had seen, had loved. And what would this grief make of her? Would she forever feed it? Would she forever try to fill up its hollow places with people who didn’t fit, with things that simply ate deeper into the gap?

    She fingered the drugs in her pocket. The glassine packets rustled a seductive invitation to escape, if only for a time, the sorrow that fed on her, burrowing deep beneath her skin, into her marrow, into her deepest corners where she had tucked away the few hopes and dreams she had ever allowed herself to cherish.

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