Today I'm Fine

"How are you?" people ask me over and over.  Sometimes it's a stranger in the store. I ignore them because I have no words. Other times it's someone I know and I tell them that it's a bad question. 

It is a bad question. How do you think I am? My son is dead.

I'm fine.

Fucked up. Insecure. Neurotic. And emotional.

Just fine.

I cry. A lot.

I have bad dreams over and over. Waking, gasping, with tears and a heavy heart. I never dream of Zac. I dream of car accidents. I dream of bad things happening to my other kids, my family, my friends.

I'm fine. Really.

One day I went to the scene of the accident and I cleaned debris from the side of the road. A headlight. A fender. Tiny pieces of a shattered red car.  I cursed and cried and kicked the hubcap that was frozen in the ice.

I'm fine. Thanks for asking.

One day I came home to find the driveway marker that Zac put at the end of the driveway missing. I called my guy in a panic, sobbing. I don't want a new one. I want THAT one because that's the one Zac put there so he could find his way home.

I'm fine. It's all good.

One day Zac's big brother called me to see how I was doing. I laughed and I cried.

I'm fine.

I can't go to the store where he worked. I can't even drive by it without crying.

But I'm fine. Don't worry about me.

I keep counting the days and the weeks. I keep crying. Tears leaking out of my eyes while I drive, while I shop, while I cook dinner.

His boots sit in my kitchen. His sweater is folded in my drawer. His jackets hang in my closet.

I'm fine.

The stuffed elephant he bought me sits on a shelf in the living room. I carried it around for weeks after he died. It sits with his flashlights, his dice, his dragon.

People ask me over and over "How are you?"  How can I possibly answer that? Did you really want to know?

Well I'm fine. Just fucking fine. Thanks for asking.