Healing is a matter of time, but it is sometimes also a matter of opportunity. Hippocrates once said that, and I try to live by that. Those words are hung on a little laminated poster in my office. Originally, I didn’t have a purpose linked to the poster, just a picture I picked up from Goodwill in Waterloo. Now, this poster is far too close to home. Just thinking about the poster makes me grip the steering wheel of my Toyota Corolla, digging into the black leather with my chipped nails. 

I’m almost at work, the reddish brick building in the distance, the backdrop of Akron, Ohio, a city far off in the distance. I’m supposed to have this day off, but I left my water bottle and medication next to each other by the false potted fern on my desk. I made sure to message my mom that I would be late, and I’m not sure she responded. She rarely ever does now. Just thinking about my mother and her response sends a shivering urge to check my phone. But I’m driving and what if  I get into a crash? Better not. I’m pulling in now, I take a deep breath. The mere thought of dying in a crash as my neck is jerked and snapped is painful, more than it should feel. My car bumps up as I enter the parking lot. As my car steadies onto the elevated parking lot, I release a breath that I did not know I was holding. The brick building is to the left of me, the entrance dimmed along with the windows who have been picking up too much grime. In the crack of the old red bricks there is a bird nest, but it looks abandoned and empty. The nest is loose, and there is a thought of a baby bird who was hiding from the vicious autumn winds falling down. 

My gaze steers away and I begin to look for a spot. There is one, by a small tree. I park, the tree snaps, and I die in the car. Or if I’m even more unlucky my insurance goes through the roof and my car is destroyed. I realize I’m not moving. A long line of honking cars forms a road in my head, and I grit my teeth. A nice deep breath and my eyes are latched onto another parking space. This one is away from the tree my mind is so worried about. But if I’m in my mind, then that means I’m worried, right? Keep moving, Lenore. I begin to approach the parking space slowly. I’m the only one here, everyone else has gone home for Thanksgiving. Family time and meeting relatives that swear you have grown so much. I’m turning the wheel, my grip tight. Warm plated food at the table and the smell is overwhelming all the senses. There is also this scent of my relatives’ house that everytime I smell, I think of them and their house. I’m almost parked. The thought of Thanksgiving turns into circling vultures that begin to dive-bomb me with questions. The yellow lines fit me in place, so close yet I’m growing further away. What if I fail to show up? Do I deserve to go? Am I bad at parking? What if I die on the way? What would Caroline think? 

I stop, and I’m just there, a little more forward is all my car requires. I spill my guts all over the car and howl in pain. Except I don’t, I’m not dying. But I am eating away at myself as if each thought is a piece of acid. It takes me another five minutes till I’m done parking. My grip on the wheel makes me worry I might break it and tears well up in my eyes. I blink them away, two drops stream down. Then dripping away and drying. Then they’re gone. Deep breaths, yet each one feels like a stinging bee. The air I breathe, the wheel I hold, the life in my soul, do I deserve it? Caroline deserved the world.

I open the car door, now getting out with trembling hands. I stuff them in my pockets, feeling the lint cling to my sweaty palms. As my body lifts, my stomach wants to hurl. My feet drag me forward. But my mind is about a thousand miles behind where my body is. Slowly, I put one foot in front of the other and head toward the brick building. I reach for the keys in my wallet and the grimy windowed door opens with a gentle click. The building inside has all the flickering fluorescent lights turned off, and the purple carpeted floor with red swirls pads my shoes. I normally see this place full of kids and the mentally ill who are looking at their phones or at the paintings, and my coworkers who gently coo them to their offices. Like me, the child psychologist who just had a mental breakdown in the parking lot. I wandered to where the stairs were and clicked the thick doors open. A gray and dead staircase. The place tries to be colorful with its carpet and abstract paintings, yet behind the scenes, this place is just a warehouse of the mentally sick. My shoes clop on the staircase, up and up to the highest floor. Thoughts are this numb buzzing now, like coming out of a high. Except the high is a twisting gut wrenching feeling that slowly makes me feel numb and dull. My body groans as I move up the stairs. There is an elevator, but I guess some cardio wouldn’t be the worst for me. The air in my lungs becomes tight, and my thighs moan a little as I finish up the spiraling steps. For a moment, I look down to see how high I’ve climbed. I’m at the top of the world, air gliding my feet. A numbing emptiness in my head. Is this what Caroline felt when she walked up to her apartment that day? That thought passes by, lingers, and then releases through an exhale from my nose. My fingers leave the railing and I open the giant doors back into a colorful land full of love and support. Large paned windows welcome the hallway with an autumn view. There is my car, safe and sound. The thoughts are trapped inside, buckled down and waiting for me again. Driving is a struggle, and I begin to trace my fingers on the glass window as I walk down the hall to my office. Passing by other coworkers’ offices, I walk like a kid. A waddle in my step and a floating feeling. My expression is so dull and dim, many would think I was dead. My red puffed eyes are empty, and my mind can’t form a good thought. I’m moving subconsciously and this hallway is not that long. With ease, I’m there at my door with a cold hand on the door. Just like Caroline, I open the door to what feels like my demise. Except I know I’m fine, I’m here to pick up my stupid pink water bottle with a “Is it Friday yet?” sticker in big red bubble letters. How original. 

I look around in my office, as if this place is completely unfamiliar to me. Fake plants are everywhere, a symbol of false hope. The desk is organized, and the chairs with those fluffy pillows are neat. The carpet was recently cleaned by the cleaners who likely came in this morning. What are their lives like? Do they judge how dirty my carpet is sometimes? The thoughts are coming back. I snatch the water bottle fast, as if on the run. I felt like a dirty little criminal, my shoes sinking in on the clean floor. I ruined all the janitors’ work again, just by the presence of my existence. My gaze lifts from the table where the bottle stood, now dangling in my hand. My eyes stare out at the window, a tall lanky figure that brings in dim light. The air conditioning unit blows gently on the curtain, which sways in a ballet. Caroline, she loved to dance, her feet sore and blistered after dance. Those feet that carried her to the window. Those feet that took a gentle step into nothing. Those feet that did not hit the pavement before her head did. Caroline, a woman of class and dance, breaking in her new ballet shoes and going every Thursday at 6 to practice. That Caroline is in the curtains of my stuffy, hopeless, possibly dirtied, dull office. I almost begin to cry, my lips quivering but my mind reeling back from the mere thought of crying in an office where I’m not the one who is supposed to cry. Children come here, those with problems worse than me. Kids, who have barely lived their lives. I’m supposed to be their saviour, that little fluorescent beacon of hope. I can’t weep in their hopeful space, no matter how hopeless it seems to me. 

The next few steps down the stairs are hard, my vision is growing blurry as tears welled up in my eyes. Blurry vision, I finally make it without splitting open my head from a fall. Perhaps, that is not the best analogy at this moment. The bottle clanks against my thigh and I rush out of this stupid facade of a children’s mental hospital. I shouldn’t say that, I love my job and co-workers. I almost bite my tongue at the thought. How DARE I? 

As I walk back to my car, the November air whips in my face. The tears that were held in my eyes are falling out now, streaming down my cheeks. How many times am I gonna cry today? I ask myself as I grab my beige scarf and tuck it over my nose. I shiver as I walk to the car, the trek seems to last forever. Caroline hated the cold. But I am reminded of something, something she loved. The cold winds are hell, but Caroline believed that cold winds, no matter how devilish they were, meant that winter was coming and that snow would fall. She loved snow, blizzards, and winter in of itself. It would mean that she would get to perform Swan Lake at the theatre with her friends, her favorite. I haven’t heard from them, but I imagine them breaking in their pointe shoes with woe. Caroline was beloved, and was as graceful as the snowflakes that fell. But no matter how graceful she was, she couldn’t handle the world around her. I never got to know the reason why. Months have gone by and now I spend the first Thanksgiving without my sister, weeping as the harsh winds slap me across the face on the journey to my car. Time slows again, my face is pale. Caroline never showed any signs to me. No woes, no anger, just acceptance and support. I thought she was happy. I grip the lint in my coat pocket tighter as I begin to cry louder. The scarf grows damp with my salty crocodile tears. Perhaps she didn’t believe I could help. Did that mean I had failed her? A sister, bound forever by blood, failed to be there and to gain trust that they could talk about their feelings. Or perhaps she knew and didn’t want to look back. I grip the handle of my car, frigid and painful. I pray that it wasn’t painful for her. Did she feel like she could float? Was it an accident? I slipped into the car, the cold air silenced and now I am left empty. I hear nothing but the slight ringing in my ears. Like the snowflakes that fall, perhaps she thought too that she could fall with grace on her descent down. Like a swan, gliding through the air in a white majestic beauty. I wipe my tears and turn on my car. I clutch my wheel and I feel a clench in my heart. As I pull out, I look both ways. My hand pauses to turn on the turn signal. I don’t want to go and see my family. It hurts, it hurts so much. To see the shame and wistful looks in my family’s eyes. Then I look the other way. I think of the gravestone, the place she was buried to rest. Caroline Rome, beloved sister, friend, and dancer. I want her back, and that makes the pain even more tremendous. I look at my phone, no messages from any members for my tardiness. Do they care? Likely not. Two paths, where do I spend my Thanksgiving? Right leads to shame, left leads to sorrow. I want to break the wheel right off the handle. I decide, I refuse for Caroline to believe that she was alone. I turn my signal left and begin my long drive towards the cemetery to let my sister know just how thankful I am and that she was never alone.