Alone Again

The taxi driver, whose name I found out was Ahmed, put on his radio as we nudged our way closer to the church. Cars in the lanes next to us raced through traffic. It seemed like they were all as eager as I was to get moving. The wind rustled the trees as the leaves scattered in the wind. It was autumn in its purest form. For some reason, in California, autumn didn”t seem so bad. The sun still shined brightly, illuminating the window and causing the glass to refract the light. Everything seemed to be full of life. No matter spring, summer, fall, or winter—everything was thriving. Even the people here seemed to be happier. Sometimes when I was on the bus after work, I’d look out the window and think about how there were so many people driving to different destinations, yet out of pure coincidence all our journeys all ended up intersecting because we all decided to take the same road on the same day at the same time. All of us strangers, but our lives still somehow ran parallel. We were all in the same spot.

I looked out the window and watched as the cars from opposite lanes came into view.

A young girl, probably a teenager, sat alone, driving a convertible. Her blonde hair blew messily in the wind as the music on the radio blared through her speakers. Singing along, she bopped her head to the rhythm as she drove by. Next, a man, probably in his thirties, appeared beside us. The truck he was driving towered over the other cars on the road. I had to crane my neck upward just to look at him. He was covered in piercings scattered all over his face. One of his hands was placed casually on the wheel, while the other was resting on the door. His nails were painted black, which, for some reason, made him seem like a more trustworthy person. I think he could sense my staring because he glanced down at me. He smiled and offered a brief wave before speeding ahead. Then, there was a silver SUV with an older lady in it. She had short gray hair styled in a long bob and was wearing dark sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose. She was the type of person I would immediately assume to be what most people call a “Karen,” except something small made me realize that she wasn”t. There was a small sticker on the corner of her windshield—a pride flag. She leaned forward in her seat while laughing, revealing someone sitting next to her. It was a young girl who had buzzed hair and was wearing a sleeveless shirt accented by the cascade of tattoos on her shoulder. As suddenly as they had appeared next to us, they, too, had gone.

Everyone had different lives, different stories, and different destinations. That same logic could be applied for me to. There was no wrong or right way to live my life because that’s just what it was—my life.

As stupid as it sounded, depression didn”t seem to exist in California, but of course, things weren’t always what they appeared to be. From the outside, I appeared to be handling the loss of my father quite well, but in reality, I was a broken mess trapped in a cycle of ongoing grief. From the outside, Lexi Harlow seemed to have a life that everyone else could only ever dream of, but in reality, she had gone through something worse than a nightmare. From the outside, people seemed to be able to handle anything that the world threw at them, but in reality, they could only take so much before they began to fall apart.

Fall.

My whole life felt like I was on a steady downward spiral. Things only ever seemed to get worse. I was falling, and I couldn’t figure out a way to stop myself.

That is why my name is Autumn—I am destined to fall.

For once I just wanted to feel what it was like to fly.

After a few minutes of listening to Ahmed play Cardi B on repeat, I reached into my bag and pulled out my AirPods. Music was my escape, and I desperately needed an escape right now. Putting the buds in my ears, I tapped the song that most resembled how I felt at that current moment. I laid my arm against the door and rested my head on it.

Currently playing – I Can’t Breathe by Bea Miller

Was I only put here on this earth to struggle with emotional trauma in a state of constant grief?

I had no idea what to expect when I arrived for the funeral. Would my mom be waiting for me outside the doors? Would there be anyone else who had decided to show up last minute? Would the anger I had toward my father outweigh my ability to step inside the church? Would my mom resent me for causing her to experience so much pain all on her own? How was supposed to make it through this? I never thought I would be so worried about “surviving” a funeral. The only person who usually didn”t make it out alive was the person lying in the casket. Now, I wasn’t so sure. All I ever wanted in life was to be happy.

Is that too much to ask for?

Apparently, it was.

The song ended as the taxi rounded a corner and left the highway. We pulled into a suburban community where houses and quaint shops lined the sidewalk. Lifting my head, I scanned the horizon. The sun was only slightly lower in the sky, but its presence was still known. People on bikes pedaled nearby, and golf carts trailed slowly behind us. Another song followed the previous one.

Currently playing - I’m Tired by Labrinth and Zendaya

I squeezed my eyes shut tightly as I attempted to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach.

For the rest of the journey there, I tried my best to dismiss any negative, anxiety-ridden thoughts before they overwhelmed my mind. Sometimes music could be a blessing and a curse—It was a blessing because it described exactly what you were feeling. It was a curse because it described exactly what you were feeling. It only took ten more minutes to see a large church with a bell overhead in the distance. As we got closer to the building, I saw my mom sitting outside on the concrete steps in front of the main entrance. Her head was resting in her hands, with her elbows propped on her knees. Once we pulled to a stop, I paid the taxi driver and thanked him for the ride. Before getting out, I turned to look at the time displayed on the front console.

3:38 p.m.

If anyone was going to show up, they would be inside already, and seeing as how my mom sat outside alone, the answer was clear.

Flinging open the door, I stepped outside. The reflection of the sun blurred my vision, causing streaks of light to appear in front of me. After taking a few steps forward, I could make out my mom’s face staring back at me. Her lip was trembling. She rose to her feet and gazed at me with wide eyes. There, at that moment, it was as though my feet had become glued to the sidewalk. I stopped moving. Questions filled my head. Would I be able to be there for her like she was for me? Was I strong enough for her to lean on me for support? Could I handle this? Did I really want to go to my father”s funeral?

Yes.