the shoebox you die in
I can’t even begin to explain to you how I feel fucked up all the time about Antonio’s death. Antonio was my-corker. I think about him every day. I think about the way that I was told that he died. David-the boss boss of my department organized the meeting. Pastor Karen Olivetto and Isabel, the head of HR, were there, too. I knew it was bad news when I walked through the door. I knew something was wrong. I thought we were going to be told that the program was closing and that we had to find new jobs. I was prepared for that. I’ve dealt with that news before. And I’ve dealt with the news of death. But I was not prepared for Antonio to die; to be dead. I was prepared to run into him some day and have an awkward encounter. Sorry I fired you. I feel so unjustified. Would I have felt that way if you had lived? If I had not been able to uncover all the details of your life post-mortem? I will never be sure. It is that doubt which fuels my discomfort. The fact that I might question every day if his death was the product of my actions. I know what I should tell myself; what my mother has said. That I should relinquish blame and guilt. He was already on his way out.
When I was a teenager one of my best friends committed suicide. She was on her way out, too. I had done everything I could that was in the little power I contained in that teenage body to help. We don’t know how to help ourselves at that age, let alone our peers. Almost a decade later I have been able to convince myself that I did all I could to prevent her death. I loved her. I cared for her. But I could never weigh in heavier than the drugs that consumed her spirit. I used to be honest about the fact that my tattoos were homage to her. To honor the spirit that would outlive her human existence. But now I attribute them to being cliché. I was young and foolish, I tell people. As if their significance was ever less present than they were the day I traded a couple Codeine and twenty bucks to have her memorialized on my wrists. I still can’t come to terms with her death. Her death is no longer on my hands. It is on my wrists so I can’t divorce them from memory. Some masochistic reminder of everything that is outside of my control but I still feel indebted to oblige.
I am not obliged to Antonio’s death. Yet I feel I am at the root. I made that decision to fire him. Second, third, fourth chances could have been possible. I will not get a tattoo in his honor. His death is closer. In that space behind my heart. Where you hide things. They occupy that space. I think about him every day.
I had a nightmare two days ago. Maybe you noticed. I attended his funeral and moments afterward I saw him everywhere. I was convinced he was alive, but ignored. I tried to tell everyone but they told me I was delusional. They were right. Three weeks later and there is still no explanation for his death. He was too badly decomposed. He was in the little shoebox of an apartment for so long. No one knew he was dead. His family found out after me. I am a stranger. His mother doesn’t know who I am. I know as much about him as his mother. He lied. Said he was 28. He’s 40. What does that even mean? David said that the death of a young person is always shocking. Antonio was not a young person yet his death is still shocking. I think about him every day. I am thinking about him now. I was thinking about him on Sunday when I told you that I needed time by myself. I have to know how he died. I have to know. That will not settle anything, but I can’t wait any longer. I think about him every day. I have to know. I’m sorry. Jesus, I am so sorry.
When I was a teenager one of my best friends committed suicide. She was on her way out, too. I had done everything I could that was in the little power I contained in that teenage body to help. We don’t know how to help ourselves at that age, let alone our peers. Almost a decade later I have been able to convince myself that I did all I could to prevent her death. I loved her. I cared for her. But I could never weigh in heavier than the drugs that consumed her spirit. I used to be honest about the fact that my tattoos were homage to her. To honor the spirit that would outlive her human existence. But now I attribute them to being cliché. I was young and foolish, I tell people. As if their significance was ever less present than they were the day I traded a couple Codeine and twenty bucks to have her memorialized on my wrists. I still can’t come to terms with her death. Her death is no longer on my hands. It is on my wrists so I can’t divorce them from memory. Some masochistic reminder of everything that is outside of my control but I still feel indebted to oblige.
I am not obliged to Antonio’s death. Yet I feel I am at the root. I made that decision to fire him. Second, third, fourth chances could have been possible. I will not get a tattoo in his honor. His death is closer. In that space behind my heart. Where you hide things. They occupy that space. I think about him every day.
I had a nightmare two days ago. Maybe you noticed. I attended his funeral and moments afterward I saw him everywhere. I was convinced he was alive, but ignored. I tried to tell everyone but they told me I was delusional. They were right. Three weeks later and there is still no explanation for his death. He was too badly decomposed. He was in the little shoebox of an apartment for so long. No one knew he was dead. His family found out after me. I am a stranger. His mother doesn’t know who I am. I know as much about him as his mother. He lied. Said he was 28. He’s 40. What does that even mean? David said that the death of a young person is always shocking. Antonio was not a young person yet his death is still shocking. I think about him every day. I am thinking about him now. I was thinking about him on Sunday when I told you that I needed time by myself. I have to know how he died. I have to know. That will not settle anything, but I can’t wait any longer. I think about him every day. I have to know. I’m sorry. Jesus, I am so sorry.