TITLE: All We Never Say
AUTHOR: coolbyrne
RATING: G
SPOILERS: "Evaluation Day" and "Getting Off"
DISCLAIMER: If only they were mine. Alas, they are not.
SUMMARY: A moment's reflection on a life. GSR. Caution: character death.
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AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have no idea where this came from. I only know Sara's comment, "You see me every day" has stuck with me since "Getting Off" first aired. As well, I heard a song on a Canadian television show and it all sort of came together. This fic has not been beta'd, so any and all errors are my own.
----
I had a dream I could turn my clock back a day,
I'd see you smile at me,
The way you would
The way you could for me.
The things I'd say
That would make you never make me cry today.
I would tell you all we'd shared and all we cared,
But it won't bring you back to me.
And I remember just what you meant to me,
And I remember all the things we used to be.
But life goes on.
It won't for long
Today.
(unknown title, unknown songwriter, played on "Cold Squad")
----
I've long held the belief that funerals were meant for the living, not for the dead. The cynicism has never left me- that we only seem to celebrate the person's life in their death. It allows those left behind to alleviate their heart of any guilt; to say the things they always wanted to tell the person, believing- hoping- in some kind of cosmic one-last-chance.
That's why I'm not at her funeral today. My absence will be met by surprise, disbelief and no doubt a considerable amount of anger by those who know her, but she, she would understand. All the ceremony and hushed tones and bowed heads. That's not what she was about. She would die of embarrassment if she knew what was going on today. And I laugh at my inadvertent pun, because she would laugh, too.
So I'm not at the church, with the thin veil of claustrophobia lingering over me, or the tight noose of guilt like a tourniquet around my heart as person after person paints a loving fitting tribute to her. I think most people would be surprised to find out I am on the outskirts of Vegas, the bright lights at long last out of my line of vision, replaced by serenity. I am sitting on a small outreach of rock she told me about a couple of years ago.
When I asked her what she had done with the gorilla's corpse, it had been a rather detached question- the information only necessary to finish up the paperwork. But as was the case with Sara, her answer made me want to ask more questions. I could never figure it out; how one person could make all my academic achievements seem like a grain of sand. Not in a bad way- that wasn't her nature. But for all my knowledge, she always made me want to learn more. So she told me about this place. I asked how she knew about it and she told me quite nonchalantly that the four rare days she had taken off last year were spent hiking solo through the Nevada hills. She took my slightly heated tirade about the irresponsibility of doing such a crazy thing by herself in stride. She laughed, in fact. I should try it, she told me. I'd find it incredibly liberating. Well, I didn't need nor care to be liberated, I replied.
It's only now that I realize that's what she did for me. She liberated me.
Five feet to my left is a small marker she had taken the time to leave for the animal no one would know was even there. If they managed to venture up this far, they would be overwhelmed by the beauty of the view and probably not even notice the marker of stones, let alone guess their meaning. But she made it anyway.
I think how this would be a suitable mark of reverence to her, so I stand up, brush the dirt off my jeans and begin collecting a few rocks here and there. When I think I have enough, I bend and reach down to a small ledge below my perch. It is out of the way and certain to be undisturbed, so at long last she can have some peace and quiet.
"I haven't seen you in a while, have I?"
"You see me every day."
I literally feel like I've been punched in the stomach. Why did I remember that? Why did that have to come to me now? I am on all fours, my fingers gripping into the tightly packed earth until they start to bleed. Blotches of water splash on some of the rocks I've yet to use. The moisture makes dark stains in the dust and I look up, only to realize the source isn't from the sky, but from my eyes. I'm crying, I berate myself. It's not what she would have wanted. The treacherous tears only fall harder. She wouldn't want me thinking of last chances; she'd want me thinking of the chances taken. She wouldn't want people talking about what she did with her life, but what we were going to do with ours.
The only problem is, I can't imagine what I'm going to do with mine. Without her.
With shaky hands, I finish my makeshift tribute to her; a vain attempt to somehow convey all my love and all her spirit in one small symbol. I hope this means more to her than my presence at a church. I didn't need to lay myself bare at her funeral today because she knew how I felt.
Didn't she?
I look out across the horizon. Looking for one last chance? The sun burns brightly into my eyes and gives me an excuse to cover up another wave of tears.
-end.