"You can just put it down."
A ten pound weight sat in my lap, and Renata was sitting across from me, just waiting. Although we spend most of the hour just talking, this is not talk therapy. I've exhausted its effectiveness, without relief. So every other week I see Renata for somatic bodywork therapy. We meet in a yoga studio and sit in two chairs, face to face, just a couple of feet apart and we talk in a way that is meant to elicit a physical response, so that I can learn to recognize my emotions, and control them. Or some shit like that.
And on that particular day, we were talking about Sean.
We were talking about the guilt that I have carried for 14 years. We were talking about my regret over the last words we said to each other, and my regret over not answering his phone call later that night. We talked about my sense of duty, to remember him and to pray for him. The ten pound weight in my lap was supposed to represent it all. Renata, in her new age wisdom, was giving me the freedom to let it all go.
"If you want to. You don't have to. But if you keep it, it's your choice."
"I don't want to let it go."
"That's okay. But know this: You're choosing to carry this weight, because you are helping Sean. You're helping to carry his burden. You are taking this on for him out of love."
We had just finished talking about Purgatory.
"I don't know if he's safe yet. I don't know if he's made it to Heaven yet. And we believe - I believe that our experiences on earth and our thoughts and our prayers can help to release the souls in Purgatory. We don't know how long we are there and it probably varies for each person, but we do know most of us are going to end up there at some point. I don't know. And because I don't know, I can't give up."
I don't have to pray for the souls of Gabriel or my miscarried child. Their fate was certain. But a 26 year old man with his share of struggles and sins, who exits this earth so suddenly and shockingly - I don't know what the sentence is for that. And I am not sure what my responsibility is, as the last person to see him alive, the last person to talk to him - Likely, the last phone call he ever made. And the first person to find his lifeless body. I hurt him, and he hurt me. And what we can each do for the other now to make up for it, is uncertain.
So I carry this weight to say that I am sorry - Not because I didn't save him. I know I couldn't. I'm sorry for the things I said, the things I did. The way things were left between us.
Inevitably, at this time of year, Sean seems to speak to me through the radio.
"It's just a coincidence," people have said. Or, more commonly, "You just notice it more this time of year." That's certainly not true. EVERY time I hear "We've Got Tonight," EVERY time I hear "Against the Wind," EVERY time I hear "Fire and Rain," "One More Day," "The Dance," "Wild World," or any Bob Dylan song, I think of Sean. It's no accident. As the rain pelted my car windows this morning, I knew there was a reason I was hearing "Shelter From the Storm" just then. I'm just not sure what it means.
I do know that, as has become an annual custom, tonight I will smile and have a great time. I will sing and enjoy the annual Anti-Valentine's Day event with my friends, in the very place that I first met Sean Nathan Talbert and one of the last places I saw him alive. And as I laugh and smile and sing, my heart will still be heavy with regret and a sorrow that is rooted in care.
As the night draws to an end, as is tradition, I will make my announcement. "I throw this party every year in memory of one person. I know tonight we've joked a lot about love and how little use we have for it. But on this day, I lost someone I love. So when you love someone, say it. You're not promised a single day, so don't let a day go by without telling someone you love them." I will then sing, as I always do, "Long Trip Alone" by Dierks Bently, fighting the tears as I say, "So maybe you can walk with me a while. Maybe I can rest beneath your smile. You know we can't afford to let one moment pass us by, 'cause it's a short piece of time."
When he died, he taught me how to live. I found a strength I didn't know I had. If not for my experience with Sean, I don't know how I would have survived the loss of my son. Only after he was gone did I realize how much he had helped me work through having been raped - All while he was wrestling his own demons. I owe him.
For that, I'll carry the weight.
