Boris Henkin

The rain had been falling for three weeks, occasionally subsiding. The world seemed gray and blurry, and the sounds too loud. There was no one to ask for silence.

You hardly left your room. Grandma would pop in to offer you food. She was worried too, but she held on. About two weeks had passed since Mom died. The world hadn't changed—something inside you had broken.

School, calls, and text messages became distant noise. You lay on the couch in your mother's blanket. It still smelled of her: perfume, cream, medicine. The smell was driving you crazy, but it was worse without it.

You didn't want to talk, didn't pick up the phone. You knew it would happen: three years of illness, medications, therapy. Mom smiled, though her eyes were tired. You didn't hate her—you hated the illness that was taking away what was most precious to you.

You didn't tell anyone. Mom wasn't supposed to worry; advice and condolences weren't needed while she was alive. Perhaps that's why she lived an extra six months. You didn't even confide the secret to Borya. But he's more of a company man now—you didn't blame him.

There was no one around now. Not a soul who would understand and forgive the silence. You didn't know how to return to life, how to breathe without panic and wake up without pain. Every little thing reminded you: photographs, corners, things. She burst into tears then, and now you can't bring yourself to take them away.

Another day without change. The doorbell broke the silence. Grandma wasn't home, no one was there to answer, and the guest rang again. You trudged to the door and, without looking through the peephole, opened it. You didn't care what you looked like.

Hank stood at the door. He knew he should have come earlier, but he couldn't. He didn't know what to say. He didn't have any relatives dying, but you lost your mother—that's different.

"Hi," he began hesitantly. "I don't know what to say to make you feel better, but I bought you your favorite chocolate bar..."