“If Love Were Enough”
Fiction. Based on a True Experience of Loss
By Sarah J. Bartholomew
“. . . I went back and took the water out of my stories.”
-Donny O’ Malley
I always pass our graveyard when I drive from New Jersey to South Carolina.
the graveyard of the friendships that were born so organically
despite the stress and cigarette smoke that colored our mornings, afternoons and nights.
I fill out a visitors pass and drive around our old barracks, still looming high like towers, where those that failed testing were forced to move a few floors down in case they were tempted to jump.
I pass by our formation area where we stood half-frozen, ice racing to cover our backs.
Stood straight and tall, straight and tall, straight and tall.
I never felt that Virginia was my home, but I feel as if we will never belong elsewhere. Homes provide a relaxed contentedness, whether the home is a house or a smoke pit during an unforgiving winter.
Closure does not exist in cases like these unless you’re religious. Even if I was, I know you weren’t.
I am sorry that the world led you to think that it was better off without you.
I am sorry that the love you had for yourself- for life- ran so, so dry.
We mourn for you.
I mourn for you.