AlvernoINK Spring / Fall 2017 - Page 11

To overcome trauma, you must speak of it. But what do I do if my personality doesn’t allow me to speak aloud of experiences, despite the overwhelming thoughts, feelings, and actions that are driven by the concept of his death and the idea that he doesn’t exist anymore. I write about it. I write about the mawkish nonfiction story of my friend who I loved, even though I’ve never been a fan of sentimental talk. I write about him even though he is somewhere making fun of me, knowing that I would never admit to my fondness of him if he were still here. Our love was insults, jokes, and sarcasm. He must be ridiculing me right this moment.



That porch was my best-loved spot before it died. The porch smack dab in the middle of the woods on 59805 in Clearfield, Wisconsin. Somehow, no matter what time of day it was, the sunlight view from that porch always seemed to be at a level where it perfectly hit the trees and exposed the juicy blackberries that bloom in August. No matter the weather, the warmth of that sun on my face acted as a blanket of comfort for me. I needed that comfort on the day you escaped us, but my favorite porch couldn’t help me. One of the reasons I loved this spot so much was because it was the cutoff of the Wi-Fi. If I move even just a hair more into the trees, all connection I had with the virtual world was gone, as if I were to step through one of those portals that you see in movies. The ones that take you to an entirely different world.

Sometimes I enjoyed the other side of Wi-Fi world, but occasionally at my cabin in the woods, I longed to know what was happening at home. It seemed like a perfect Saturday. We were going to have our engagement photos taken right near the lake, just down the road. I spent the morning adjusting every curl on my head and wrinkle in the yellow, floral dress I bought specifically for the occasion. I even wore long shining earrings, something I never do. Before heading down to the lake, I took a slow walk to the porch from my cabin. The back path to the porch on my grandparent's house was dark, even at 10:00 in the morning. I could hear the confused crickets from last night still chirping, and the faint sound of a breeze coming through the hundreds of trees surrounding me was brushing my skin. I eventually hit that gleaming sun that overlooked my favorite porch, but within minutes I began to experience an event that was anything but a sunny day.