by Annh Browder
I have always hated noise. After the funeral, it seemed like no one ever stopped talking. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” “She would want you to be happy,” and “If you ever need anything, let me know” were only a few of the constant sounds that filled the air. The other sounds were mostly those of my father. The sounds of his soft crying when he thought I was sleeping, the sound of bottles clinking early in the morning, and the sound of him snoring after eventually passing out. These were the sounds I hated the most. My father didn’t want me to hear those sounds, and that is what made them the worst. My dad lost himself when Mom went away. If I’m honest, I think that Dad left with her, because I haven’t seen or heard him since—not the real him anyway. I miss my father. I miss my mother. I miss myself. After all, I don’t think that I’m who I used to be. Not anymore.
When I need to get away from the constant sounds, I go to her. I sit with her and talk. She never answers. She never hears me, but I talk anyway. I need to know why she left. Was it me? Was I the problem? Mom and Dad fought so much before she left. There were so many tears, so many arguments and so much pain. So much pain. “This isn’t fair,” Dad would sob. Mom would only nod and say, “I know.” In the end, life can either make or break someone. It broke my mother. It broke me too. Being near her helps, but she isn’t the same. I suppose being surrounded by four walls of padding can stifle a person.
Everyone at the funeral said I was just like her. I hated that. I didn’t want to be her. I wanted to be me, but I could never find myself. I’ve been searching for myself for years now. I walk, I listen to the constant noise, and I rest. I look for myself with my father, but I am not there. I look for myself with my mother, but I am not there. I am starting to believe that I am not anywhere. I can feel myself fading away a little more with each passing day. Where am I? Who am I? Why can’t I find myself?
I have come back to the cemetery again. The noise is always the loudest here. I hate the noise. I hate it, but I always come back. When my father has passed out, when I have finished my constant walking, I come right back here to the noise. It is only when I sit in front of the familiar tombstone that I can recall why I hate the noise. I hate it because it tells me the truth. The noise tells me who I am. It tells me where I am, and I never like what it says.
I always find myself in the cemetery. When I walk amongst the tombstones, I begin to remember who I am. I remember how I got here, and, as I stare at my name on my gravestone, I remember just how far I was willing to go to escape myself. I remember how badly I wanted to escape the noise.