“All I wanted was to be close to someone who would not do those things.”
“Yes, of course. There are many memories bound up in all of this, but there is also joy, yes? Joy that we are still here? That is what I have been trying to focus on.”
“Oh? How so?”
-“I do not know how healthy it is to treat them as if they are still there, but I also do not know that this is what I am doing. I do not even know if that is what the others are doing, yes? They might very well be, given the open seats on the table that we leave, given the conversations I hear at night from my cocladists. Many of them talk with Death Itself in quiet whispers while laying in bed. Many of them talk with RJ, still. Many of them speak to the dead.
-(Woman helps Friend by talking about memory without realizing it)
-(Woman realizes what unbecoming might look like)
+“I do not know how healthy it is to treat those who are lost as if they are still there, but I also do not know that this is what I am doing. I do not even know if that is what the others are doing, yes? They might very well be, given the open seats on the table that we leave, given the conversations I hear at night from my cocladists. Many of them talk with Death Itself in quiet whispers while laying in bed. Many of them talk with RJ, still. I myself have talked with Michelle and Sasha, when I remember days long ago on her field, listening to her speak of being a dead woman walking when she was having bad days or gushing about Debarre on her good ones. Many of us speak to the dead.”
+Her friend furrowed eir brow. “Do you want my opinion as a friend, or do you want my opinion as a therapist?”
+The Woman shrugged.
+“As a therapist, I would say that there is such a thing as an unhealthy attachment style, that holding onto past traumas makes it awfully easy to reinflict them on oneself.” Her expression shifted kind as she continued, “As your friend, I would say that, if that helps, if there is, as you say, joy in it, then by all means, continue. If you can pray to the dead to feel joy, then perhaps you must.”
+“I see,” she said, buying herself a moment to think by sipping her mocha. Ah, but she was a cat, yes? A panther? Perhaps you can imagine this with lapping tongue, the way a cat’s tongue curls back and scoops up drink, drawing it up into their mouth. Or perhaps she is the type who has leaned into another aesthetic, the type who can chew with her mouth closed. Idle distractions, even for your humble narrator. “Then yes, there is joy in it. There is joy in those memories, is there not? One takes a moment of stillness…”
+After a long few seconds, Her Friend tilted eir head. “Yes?”
+“Ah, a fleeting thought. One takes a moment of stillness and parks in that quiet joy, even if it is one of separation.”
+“Is there joy in loss?”
+“I do not know. Is there?”
+Her Friend laughed, shaking eir head and leaning back with mocha in hand. “This is what I needed, my dear. I needed to speak with a friend. I needed chat about memories and watching the way you smile when you talk even these sad things, not sitting on some therapist’s couch for the third time in as many weeks.”
+The Woman preened. This, you see, is more than just a brushing out of imperfections, but a shift in attitude. When The Woman preened — when her whole clade preened, even! — she would sit up a little straighter with a subtle shimmy, lift her snout, close her eyes, bristle her whiskers, and smile a smile that was just south of smug. It is very cute, reader, I can assure you of that.
+They fell then into comfortable chatter over just the small things: the coffee, the weather, the chairs and how they were almost comfortable, but not quite. They fell into warmth and companionship, and all the while, the woman set that fleeting thought she had had just off to the side, where she could keep track of it without it distracting.
+Perhaps this unbecoming that her mind circled around was simply the utmost in stillness.