I rubbed and patted him, calling his name. The patting turned to slaps. He stopped moaning, stopped responding in any way. Purpose leaked from his body. Even with all my friction, his skin slipped from red toward blue.
I leaned in again to wrap him in my wet arms, but it was no good; I needed some other way to get him warm. A few minutes more in the cold spring air without any clothes, and he'd be gone.
I looked up. The tent with my dry thermal sleeping bag was just above the bank, no more than twenty feet away. I curled around him on the rock and tried to seal a layer of air around his torso. The shivering went on, and I couldn't hear a heartbeat. A voice said, "Try."
I left him curled on the rock and stumbled through the rapids to shore. I scrambled up the rocky tree-lined bank. The tent zipper tore as I fought with it. I grabbed the sleeping bag and ran back to the river.
On the bank, I wrapped the bag around my neck and somehow thrashed my way back to the boulder without falling. I wrestled the bag around him and sealed it; then, I covered him with my body. I sheltered him as best I could, searching for the sound of his breath above the rushing water. A long time passed before I could accept that he no longer needed me.
There was a planet that couldn't figure out where everyone was. It died of loneliness. That happened billions of times in our galaxy alone.
The university gave me compassionate leave. After the funeral. After long days with Robbie's relatives and everyone who counted as his friends, I felt no need to speak to anyone ever again. It was enough to stay inside to read his notebooks and look through his drawings. And to write down everything I could remember about our time together.
People brought food. The less I ate, the more they brought. I couldn't bring myself to pay a bill. Or cut the grass. Or wash a dish. Or watch the news.
Two million people in Shanghai lost their homes. Phoenix ran out of water. Bovine Viral Encephalopathy jumped from cattle to people.
Weeks passed before anyone realized. I slept in the day and stayed up at night, reading poems to a room full of sentient beings who were everywhere but here.
I didn't answer my phone. Now and then, I skimmed voicemails and glanced at texts. Nothing needed answering. I wouldn't have had answers anyway.
Holly Margl is the award-winning author of Witnessing Grief; Inviting Trauma and Loss to Our Coaching Conversations, An Enneagram Perspective, coach, coach mentor, and trainer specializing in grief, trauma, and the Enneagram.
