November's Ghost

 The crisp fall air filled my lungs as I walked  near the small open  window in our room. The world outside the window seemed peaceful and unmoving, and for a second it felt as if I could breathe again. A small shuffle near the bed snapped me back to reality, it was Raymond, stretching out his hands, with eyes half open, it was clear that he was just waking up.

“Morning Cecil” Raymond said, his voice trailing off  as he got up to go to the bathroom. 

“ I’m going down to make breakfast in a little bit” I said as I finished making the bed.

As I walked out of the into the hallway, the house seemed empty and lifeless, an empty shell of what it once was. On my way down the stairs I noticed that Ronan’s  room was half open, as if it was waiting for him to come back. 

“ Raymond must’ve gone in and forgotten to close the door” “ he always does this when he comes home drunk.”  I thought. 

I recalled the first time I caught him in there, his muffled sobs alerting me awake, I quickly jumped out of bed to check on him, thinking he was just outside the hallway, but i managed to see him laying on Ronan’s bed clinging onto the teddy bear we got him before he was born. 

“ Mom and I miss you so much buddy.” he managed to slur out in his drunken stage.

Raymond’s sobs began to fill the room, and my heart broke in pieces seeing the strongest man I knew sob like wounded child. 

I felt Raymond’s presence behind me,  as if it was pulling me back to reality.  I turned around to see him standing a top of the stairs, his face pale, eyes red, and a hollow expression took hold of his face. I knew that lifeless expression like the back of my hand;  it was the same one he had the day of the funeral.  He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. The silence settled between us, one more uncomfortable reminder Ronan was the center of our center of our universe and without him our world would collapse sooner or later. I was brave enough to break the silence between us, as I made my way down the stairs with him, to prepare breakfast for just the two of us.

I cracked an egg onto the skillet, the sizzling sound and the scrambled egg aroma took hold of the room.  It was too quiet even with the sound of cooking. Quiet in a way a house could only be when grief has taken residence there.  

Raymond sat at the table, his hands wrapped around a mug of steamy black coffee. He hadn’t touched it. He hadn’t touched much of anything lately. His eyes were fixed on the window, watching the frost inch down the glass like slow-moving tears.

I slid the plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of him. He didn’t meet my gaze. 

“You should eat.” I said, though my voice sounded hollow. I couldn’t even convince myself it mattered.

He finally shifted, his hands dropping to his lap. “Not hungry,” he muttered.

“You need to eat something, Raymond,” I pressed, trying to keep the frustration from leaking into my tone.

“I said I’m not hungry,” he snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through the fog between us.

I froze, the pan still clutched in my hand. My jaw tightened, the words bubbling up before I could stop them. “You can’t keep doing this.”

“Doing what?” he snapped, his voice sharp enough to make me flinch. “Sitting here? Existing? What is it now, Cecil?”  

Raymond’s jaw clenched, his knuckles whitening around the coffee mug. “Don’t start with me.”  

“You think this is easy for me?” I asked, my voice rising. “You think I don’t lie awake at night wondering what I could’ve done differently? But at least I’m trying, Raymond.”  

“Trying,” he echoed bitterly, finally looking at me. His eyes were cold, empty. “You think making eggs is trying? You think pretending to be here is trying? 

I opened my mouth to respond, but he stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor.

 “I don’t have time for this.”  

“Raymond—”  

“I have work,” he said curtly, grabbing his coat from the back of the chair. 

“I’ll be back late.”  

He left without another word, the front door slamming shut behind him. I sat there for a long moment, staring at the empty chair, my heart pounding.  

When I finally moved, it was to clear the plates, dumping the untouched food into the trash. As I wiped down the table, something caught my eye—the calendar hanging on the wall by the fridge.  

It was open to November, and there, scrawled in Ronan’s messy handwriting, was a single word: Thanksgiving.

The letters were uneven, the ink smudged, as though he’d written it in a rush. I reached out, my fingers brushing over the writing, and for a moment, it felt like he was still here, his small hand clutching the pen, his voice ringing in my ears: *“Don’t forget, Mom. We have to make pumpkin pie!”*  

A lump rose in my throat, and I pressed my hand against my chest, willing myself not to break. But the weight of it all was too much. I slid to the floor, my back against the wall, the calendar swaying gently above me.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That evening, the house was quiet again, the kind of quiet that felt heavy, oppressive. The smell of roasted turkey and mashed potatoes filled the air, though I couldn’t bring myself to set the table. Instead, I sat at the counter, a glass of wine untouched in front of me, staring at the clock.  

When the front door opened, I knew immediately. The heavy footsteps, the uneven shuffle—it was Raymond.  

He stumbled into the kitchen, his tie loosened, his shirt wrinkled, and the stench of alcohol clinging to him like a second skin.  

“You cooked,” he slurred, leaning against the counter.  

“It’s Thanksgiving,” I said, my voice flat.  

Raymond snorted, shaking his head. “Thanksgiving,” he repeated, like the word was a joke. 

“What’s there to be thankful for, Cecil? Huh?”  

I stood, my hands trembling. “I thought… I thought maybe we could remember him. Together.”  

“Remember him?” His voice rose, thick with anger. 

“You think a turkey and some mashed potatoes can bring him back? You think this makes anything better?”  

Tears burned at the corners of my eyes. “I’m trying, Raymond! I’m trying to keep something, anything, from falling apart!”  

“Don’t,” he said, pointing a shaky finger at me.

  “Don’t act like you’re the only one holding things together. 

You think I want to come home to this? To a house that feels like a graveyard?”  

“Then why do you bother coming home at all?” The words were out before I could stop them, and the moment they hung in the air, I wanted to take them back.  

Raymond’s face twisted, a mix of anger and hurt.

 “Maybe I shouldn’t,” he muttered, turning toward the door.  

“Go ahead, run away,” I said, my voice breaking. 

“You’re good at that.”  

He stopped, his back to me, his shoulders shaking. For a moment, I thought he might leave. But then he turned, his eyes red and filled with tears.

 “I can’t do this, Cecil,” he said, his voice cracking. 

“I can’t live in a world without him.”  

The words hit me like a physical blow. “Do you think I can?” I asked, my voice trembling.

 “Do you think I don’t wake up every day wishing it had been me instead of him?”  

Raymond stared at me, his expression softening. For a moment, neither of us spoke. The silence stretched on, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator.  

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he admitted finally, his voice barely above a whisper.  

“Neither do I,” I said, tears streaming down my face. 

“But we can’t keep doing this. We can’t keep tearing each other apart.”  

Raymond sank into a chair, burying his face in his hands. I hesitated before sitting across from him. The dinner remained untouched, but for the first time in months, we were facing each other, the rawness of our grief laid bare.  

It wasn’t a resolution. But it was a start.