Kinsley

Christmas Eve is supposed to be a joyous occasion, filled with laughter, happiness, and family time. It's meant to bring people together. With families or friends, you're supposed to celebrate life together. Celebrate while enjoying a hearty meal comprising turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy—the works.

Christmas décor used to bring a smile to my face. I loved the edible gingerbread ornaments Mom would make every year. Half of them were usually gone by the time Christmas Day arrived. Jessa and I would eat them. I miss setting up the Christmas lights with Dad. Making caramel popcorn with Aaron. Shopping with Mads.

I miss every fucking moment with them.

The holidays used to make me feel like I was sitting next to a crackling fire, wrapped in a warm blanket and sipping a mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows.

I felt content and loved.

Christmas Eve is not supposed to be filled with despair and persistent, demanding homesickness that can never be cured. It is not supposed to involve visiting four people you'll never see again.

Tears sting my eyes as I glance down at the different bouquets cradled in my arms. My heart isn't supposed to be a knot of splinters. My surroundings shouldn't include ghoulish-looking, blanched oak trees, headstones, both new and old, or snow crunching beneath my boots.

It shouldn't make me feel like everything I've ever loved and cared for has disappeared like smoke between your fingertips.

I shouldn't feel hollow or lost.

That's what's happening to me.

I'm stuck in hell. Guilt and sadness are gripping my heart and gut. I feel sick.

My shoulders are slumped. Snow crunches beneath my boots. Grandpa's hand rests on my shoulder. Grandma's is on my lower back. Aside from crunching snow, there is no noise.

We're walking down the skinny pathway beneath the cloudy night sky and millions of falling snowflakes. We're carrying four separate bouquets of flowers. Roses for Mom and Dad. Daisies for my sister. Lilies for Mads. Lavender for Aaron. The flowers were expensive due to them being out of season in December. That doesn't matter to me. I'd pay all the money in the world to have my family, my best friend, and my boyfriend back.

Their graves are on the far side, in the newly developed area and beneath an oak tree. Well... it was newer. Since the date of their burials, the cemetery has expanded.

That, again, is a fact that doesn't matter to me.

What does matter to me is that I'm here. Doing something I shouldn't be doing. I know all kids end up burying their parents in their lives, but it wasn't something I pictured doing until I was at least sixty. Life took them away from me too early.

Much too early.

I can't think about my little sister. Her life ended too soon. She will always be sixteen. Her option to grow up and start a life was taken from her. She will never learn how to be that independent, strong woman I know she would have been.

As for Mads? I miss Mads and her sarcastic attitude. I miss the way she used to check out boys in her totally cliché way. You could always depend on Mads, though. Despite her silliness, she was always a shoulder to cry on. Not a day has passed without thinking of her.

And Aaron... I squeeze my eyes shut. He's not buried here. Just thinking about his name is enough to push me over the edge. After he died, his parents wanted him buried back home in New Brunswick. It was understandable. Aaron's east coast roots were always prominent. He would've wanted to be close to his family.

I've visited him once—the day of his funeral. If there was a way to visit every day, I would. I would because even though family members died, his death stings the worst. That's because he was the one person I thought I was going to be tied to for the rest of my life. Aside from education, Aaron was my future. I loved him. So much. He was that extra spark of happiness and love that every woman deserves, yet rarely gets.

I wanted to marry him. To have kids with him. Then, I wanted to watch our kids grow up and find the same love we shared.

A strangled sob escapes from my lips. I have to stop walking.

"Kins," Grandpa says. He rests his hands on my shoulders. "Are you okay?"

I blink. His question pisses me off, but also amuses me. I'm not okay—isn't it obvious? Walking to their graves is the hardest part. Anticipation's roots are buried in my gut, teasing my trauma and anxiety. Soon, we'll arrive at their graves. Where their bodies are decomposing beneath the frozen ground. Where their names are carved into marble headstones.

Sometimes, I wonder why I visit the cemetery. It's torture. Seeing their names and the headstones... and the flowers against the snow...

Everything acts as a reminder.

One I wish I could numb.

Here, where I'm closest to them, I can't prevent my emotions from overtaking my body.

They devour me. Destroy me. They burn me from the inside. I'm in agony.

"Yeah." My voices shakes, and I force my feet to move. We continue walking down the pathway. In the distance, I can see the mighty oak tree. My emotional balance falters. There's an intense throb in my heart. "I'm okay."

My grandparents exchange a look. They know I'm lying.

Lying is all I can do. I want to be a strong woman like my mom taught me to be, but I also want to collapse and grieve for the horrid losses I'm facing. Lying helps me be both versions of myself. It casts the illusion that I'm okay. It allows me to break on the inside. I can be strong and weak. Broken and repaired.

When we arrive, my breath catches. I've visited many times. Every time I find something different. The first time, I noticed how new and glossy the headstones were. In the spring, I noticed the young grass sprouting from where the earth had been dug up. This time, I notice how weathered the headstones have become. It causes a pang to reverberate through my heart. It feels like a stab wound. Instead of the white they once were, they're now a greyish colour that's been weathered down by the wind, snow, sun, and rain. There are even cracks in some places.

The visual makes the weight on my heart become heavier. Erosion is a sign of time. It only solidifies the fact that two years have passed since they all died. Two years. In reality, two years isn't a long time. However, Winnipeg's harsh weather makes me feel otherwise. The violent winters have created a visual that makes me feel as if it happened ten years ago. Pain and trauma add to that.

It feels as though my heart has been broken for ten years.

Still, there are time when my memories fool me in different ways. Sometimes, I look back on the accident as if it happened yesterday or two hours ago. I have forever engraved the accident into my mind. Time doesn't matter. The memory is there, and I can't escape it.

I'm doomed to live it repeatedly.

I choke on a sob as I kneel, setting the first two bouquets of roses down with my parents.

I repeat the process until I'm finished.

If I don't continue, what remains of my strength will crumble into dust.

Roses for Mom and Dad.

Lilies for Mads.

Daisies for Jessa.

Lavender for Aaron. I set his flowers at the base of the oak tree. It acts as an unmarked grave.

When I'm finished, I whisper, "I love you guys."

My words are pathetic. There should be more words for the people I lost. The contents of my heart should pour out. I should tell them how my life is. They'd want to know. Everything. They'd want to know about Cole, Noel, Tristan, and Mariana. About my grades, and if I like campus or not.

But the thing is, the guilt is eating at me like a parasite. Exposing my life to the stagnant air and weathering headstones makes me feel like I'm bragging.

Guess what? I survived the accident. Let me tell you about everything I have the privilege of doing. Everything you can never do.

As I kneel beside Jessa's grave, melting snow seeps through my jeans. My knees are numb. My ankles are burning from the freezing air—perhaps Noel was right about wearing Converse shoes in the winter, after all. I lick my lips, only increasing how chapped they are.

Eyes filled with tears, I carefully read over each name. Jessa Hastings. Sarah Hastings. Daniel Hastings. Madeline Brown.

Then I imagine Aaron's grave back in New Brunswick. Aaron Hansen.

My heart splinters again. The shards dig into my ribcage, stealing away my breath. I'm gasping for air as I sob. Sob for the lives that were lost. For the people I love. For Jessa and Mads and Aaron. Mom and Dad.

But I also cry for the passenger in the truck that struck us. After the investigation, I heard the passenger was clear of alcohol or drugs. Whoever the passenger was, they were forced to climb into that vehicle. My mind was fuzzy when the RCMP and my grandparents were discussing it. I was intoxicated with pain medication. Only bits and pieces made sense in my mind.

I could've asked for information, but I was too scared. I still am. Knowing more information will add to my trauma. The idea of needing another prescription to combat my trauma is off-setting. Medication isn't something I want forever. I want to keep healing. Someday, I hope I can overcome this.

As my knees become number, I try to stand. My legs give out on me. I collapse back to the ground, wrapping my arms around my body. Just like the people I love, I'm rooted in this land. Stuck in this moment. The pain is too much for my body to function. Hot tears burn my frostbitten cheeks.

Beside me, I feel both my grandparents kneel beside me. I want to tell them to stand and not risk hurting themselves, but as soon as their arms are around me, comforting me, I shatter.

The sobs are ruthless, cutting through every ounce of sound in the cemetery.

"It will be okay, honey," Grandma whispers. Her voice is hoarse from the tears streaming down her cheeks. "I know it hurts. One day you'll notice it hurts just a little less. Soon, when the right time has passed, the pain will be nothing but a memory."

Through my sobs and aggressive trembling, I attempt to shake my head. Who would want pain as a memory? Certainly not me.

I want to forget the pain. I want to forget everything.

But I know I can't.

Grandma and Grandpa's arms tighten around me.

Forgetting the pain would mean forgetting the people I lost.

Which, even if I have to suffer through the pain and despair, is something I would never do.

Because when people mean everything in the world to you, they're not something you can simply let go of. When they give you a reason to remember them, that's all you can do.

Even if they are just a memory.