When I was younger, I never pictured the life I'm living for myself. When I was younger, all I could picture for myself is a career. I didn't have another choice really. I was taught from the time I was young that it was going to be my responsibility. My responsibility to take over the business my grandfather started decades ago. "This business contains the blood, sweat, and tears of this family. And one day, I expect you to take it over. I expect you to make both me and your grandfather proud."
When I was young, I really did think that our blood was in the business. That, when the building was being erected, my grandfather must have cut his palms or something, dripping blood onto the land, or maybe he let the blood go into the cement. Now that I'm older, and I'm able to critically think about what he said to me (well, what he still says to me), and I realize that my grandfather just put a lot of work into it, as did my father, having expanded the business to two other countries since his passing. Now, it's my turn to put my blood, sweat, and tears into the company. I won't be able to fully take over, be able to sit in the head chair, not until my father decides to retire. But, for now, since I've graduated college, it's time to step up to the position that has been waiting me.
After graduating in June, I decided to take a trip away from the states, go to where my family originated from, Russia. It was such a fun experience, partially due to having my best friend, Ivan, along with me. Throughout our life, I've always been far more introverted than my counterpart. Ivan brings the life to any party, dragging me out into it with ease. Some of my best stories come from the time I've spent with him. I could never picture my life without him, couldn't picture a life without my best friend.
And that's why it was so hard for me when he died.
We had just returned from Russia, and, on the plane, decided that we would separate and go to our own apartments so we could get showered and rested before meeting up the next afternoon. We hugged before we took our cabs home, having told one another that we loved one another. I'm grateful for that. Saying I love you wasn't a usual thing for us, but, for some reason, it seemed right to say it that evening. Maybe I understand why now. Because we could sense something was going to happen. I wish… well, I can't wish anymore. I've been wishing for too long that we had shared a cab, the cab I got into. I've been wishing that the bastard who drove drunk that night was the one to die instead of my best friend. But wishing does nothing. Wishing can't bring the heartbeat back into his corpse, wishing won't be able to reconstruct his face, put his ribs back into place, and put the blood back into his veins.
Before we returned to the states, I was rather excited to join the family business, put my blood into it. But, after Ivan passed… I could barely get out of my bed. I couldn't believe the pain I felt in my chest every time I woke up and came back to the realization that he was gone. I couldn't believe how cold I felt, how empty. His funeral was held two weeks after his passing. I hated seeing everyone dressed in black as we stood around his freshly dug grave. Ivan would have hated it. Never would he want us to stand around, depressed, instead of being brightly dressed and talking about the life he lived in just 24 short years. After it finished, I made my way to a local bar.
It was then that I met Rosemarie.