All That's Left Behind
She finds him sitting on a creaking swing, swathed in darkness. A half filled bottle of amber liquid glistening in the soft light from a near by street lamp as he lifted it to his lips.
She doesn't say anything when she sits on the swing besides him, burying the toes of her shoes in the bark covered floor. Even after a year the loss and guilt still twists in her abdomen and she knows that there will never be enough words to make it better for either of them.
"What ever intervention you plan to stage Ron, I aint interested." His voice is a low rumble that reminds her of thunder and the threat of a storm.
She doesn't reply instead she pulls the bottle from Max's tight grip, some of the sticky liquid spills onto her hand when he finally relinquishes his hold.
"That's great because I don't have anything to say." She took a large swig of the whiskey, not flinching as it burnt its way down the back of her throat because she had already drunk enough to believe that she was numb to the pain. She did not have anything left but the memories she saw every time she closed her eyes, no matter how much she tried she couldn't make herself forget.
She had intended to be alone but she'd been drawn to Max as soon as she saw his slumped form. It was like looking into a cracked mirror and she could not turn away from that kind of affinity.
She handed the bottle back to Max without looking at him, the gentle sway of the swing making her feel nauseas.
"Tell me it gets easier."
She almost misses the softness of his plea against the sound of the wind against leaves. She wishes she had not heard him because she knows she can't bring herself to lie.
"I can't do that." She whispers back turning to look at him, his eyes burn with betrayal at her answer. And maybe she didn't want to forget because sometimes in the darkness it felt as if she could almost touch her daughter again. "It never gets any better you just learn to live with the weight of it. You learn to breathe again."
"I can't even cry for him." The desperation in his voice is so familiar and brittle than she has to close her eyes.
"I know." She says mutely as she remembers the way the clouds threatened rain as she stood over her daughter's grave.
Her hand finds the coldness of his. His knuckles stretched tight around the bottle. He does not flinch under her touch and she knows he can hear the truth in her words.