It Is What It Is
In memory of Aidan
I checked my watch, snapping it closed with a loud CRACK and a sigh. These things can’t be rushed, of course, a fact that fails to make my job any less tedious. It is what it is.
Knowing I’d be here awhile, I decided to take a seat in one of the pews, careful not to crease my suit doing so. I looked around the chapel, at the hushed crowds huddled together in small groups like roosting crows. I overheard my name more than once; mentions of how they knew me, stories of their friends that I’ve met with before. I usually ignore this idle gossip. I’ve become accustomed to their hate and fear. It is what it is.
The mother caught my eye, sitting alone on a bench. She sat in rigid silence, a stark contrast to the woman I’d visited only a few days prior. Then, there were tears and shaking fists. Then, she’d been screaming and wailing and clawing at my face, trying her hardest to chase me away. Of course, I didn’t go away. I never do.
Now, she simply sat. Staring unseeing into space through dull, rusted eyes. It’s sad, in a way, to see this switch flipped. To watch as an intricate tapestry is torn and frayed and bleached, to watch a bright and lively woman wilt into despondent weed. One would think that after all I’ve seen, I’d get used to it. I never do.
Perhaps it’s an ache of guilt, buried deep within my bones. Perhaps it’s simply a reminder, a sign of purpose and existence disguised in this terrible pattern. Whatever the case, it pangs whatever heart I have left each and every time. It is what it is.
And perhaps that’s why, on this particular afternoon, I stood and, hesitantly, approached her. I said nothing—just sat by her side. I braced myself for her to lash out, to attack me again, but she didn’t even look up. Just stared at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. In a way, it would have been
more reassuring if she’d at least reacted, whether it be in anger or otherwise.
But she didn’t.
Finally, a hoarse whisper etched a crack in the silence.
“Why?”
I didn’t respond. Usually, any comment on my part stimulates bargaining, which I really can’t afford to do. Not anymore.
She buried her head in her hands. “It’s my fault. I should have known. I’m his mother. If I’d noticed something was wrong, then maybe…”
I wanted to tell her that nothing had been wrong. That she wasn’t to blame. That it was just the way of the world. It is what it is.
But I didn’t.
The father came and sat beside her, wrapping his arms around his wife. He looked tired—so very, very tired. The last few days had aged him, though not beyond the point of my recognition. I nodded to him, noting how he wearily nodded back. So he did remember me. Of course he did. He’d seen me more often than most. First his mother, then his father, then his sister, and now…well, it is what it is.
I cleared my throat and stood, brushing off my suit. For some reason, I couldn’t stand to be in the presence of the parents any longer. Couldn’t stand the sight of something so broken. Not that I hadn’t seen it before...but that afternoon, something was different. Wrong.
I decided then that I’d leave, get some fresh air. There isn’t much where I live, and I take it when I can. By then I’d be feeling like myself, and then I could finish my job. It’s just a job, that’s all it is, it’s nothing personal. It is what it is, I thought, and in retrospect, I believe I was attempting to convince myself more than anything.
But as I turned to go, a young girl approached me, tears streaming down her face. Without warning, she forcefully kicked my leg, causing me to wince. Ah, yes. The sister.
“How could you?!” she screamed, swinging her fists. I stepped backwards nervously. It seemed I had had the opposite effect on her as I did the mother. I distinctly remembered this girl denying my existence just a few days ago, muttering about nightmares and needing to wake up.
Now, she’d woken up.
“You took him!” She was still yelling, still crying, still trying in vain to pummel me with her delicate hands, hands much too small for such a feat. “You took him! You took him, and you’re gonna bring him back!”
I just sighed and strode away, leaving her to her wailing and stomping and the forced, premature growth that shouldn’t have come for many more years. However much it pains me to see children shrouded in black, they just never understand. Would I bring them back? Would I, if I could? Perhaps. Perhaps not. But either way, I
can’t—a fact they never seem able to process in their innocent minds. I can’t, so no matter how much they plead, I won’t. It is what it is.
Another girl stood by the door, looking down at her handheld screen and chewing gum. She wasn’t dressed like the rest of the people in attendance, wasn’t wearing ink and shadow. But she was carrying a weight, I could tell. As I approached, she popped her gum, made a rather rude hand gesture, and stormed out.
I stared after her, confused, and a voice behind me said, “Sorry about that.”
I turned and saw the brother. He was staring at the floor, hands in his pockets. “She doesn’t mean any disrespect,” he said quietly, still not meeting my gaze. “She just doesn’t know how to help me, that’s all. She doesn’t know what to say.”
I said nothing, and he laughed weakly, running a hand through his hair. “I guess I don’t, either. Or, what I should’ve said, anyway. I didn’t mean to snap at him...but it was late, and I had a lot of homework…”
I wanted to tell him that it wasn’t his fault. That he had no need to carry this burden, not all on his own, in any case. That he was allowed to cry, allowed to mourn. That him and his father didn’t have to be the strong ones, and that there’s no shame in leaning on others for support. It is what it is.
But I didn’t.
I stood frozen at the door as he shuffled back into the chapel, where his family was waiting. And there I stood for a long while, not knowing what to do. A breath of air was no longer as enticing as it had been before. And besides, it must have been almost over by now. I’d met with the mother, the father, the sister, the brother, even the brother’s girlfriend...who else would my work have affected?
My silent query was answered as I looked around, eyes lingering on everyone present. Coaches and teachers, wondering if they’d been too harsh or pushed too hard. Teary-eyed girls, heads swimming with the unsaid declarations of love that they’d been too shy to confess. But one particular boy caught my attention, hunched in the corner. Almost without thinking, I approached him.
He looked up as I neared his secluded spot, and a flash of fear crossed his features as I realized he’d been trying to avoid me. His eyes were rimmed red, and he wiped his nose on his sleeve before speaking.
“Why?”
The friend’s hoarse, whispered word echoed with a different sort of pain than the mother’s. Perhaps that’s because he wasn’t really asking
me—not really. He was wondering why he’d been left behind, left alone on this miserable rock between birth and death. A common, slightly aggravating reaction. Why do they always assume
I know all the answers? Why do they think that just because I’m here, I can see into the mind and heart and pain of everyone I take? I’m not here to ask questions, and I’m certainly not qualified to answer them. I’m here to do my job. It is what it is.
The friend wiped his eyes and took a photo from his pocket, creased from the constant folding and unfolding it had been subject to these last few days. I’ve often wondered why people keep these pictures, looking at them again and again when they never truly replicate the spark of a real smile. When the memory they treasure so much and carry in their pocket only serves to remind them of what they’ve lost. But they can’t let go, not of old photographs or sweatshirts or blankets. It is what it is.
I turned back to the chapel doors, knowing it was nearly time. I’d given them all long enough. But before I could take another step, a girl appeared in front of me, face red and eyes fixed on her shoes.
“Um...I’m so sorry to bother you, but...here,” she murmured. “I-I was wondering...could you please deliver this? If not, that’s fine…” She held an envelope in her shaking, outstretched hand. I was surprised by the gesture, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t slightly irked as well. I am not a mailman, I am not a servant, and I am certainly not a friend. But, unsure of what else to do, I took it. With a sigh of relief, the girl darted off, disappearing into the crowd.
I stared after her a long while before opening the letter. All it said was this:
I’m sorry I didn’t get to know you, and I’m sorry I didn’t say this before, but thank you for helping my brother.
I frowned and craned my head to see where she’d gone, catching glimpse of her at the side of a young boy...a boy in a wheelchair. I cursed the pang in my chest, cursed the melting hunk of ice that was supposed to be my heart, and turned away. It’s only when it’s too late that they remember these things, or care enough to bring them up. They think that maybe, just maybe, the words they’d left unspoken could have changed what happened. That’s absurd, of course. Nothing can prevent me from my purpose, whether I like it or not. And, as I’m beginning to discover, it’s not an enjoyable position to fill. It is what it is.
And so I went to the long, wooden box, polished surface gleaming in the dim light of the chapel. I went to the box and found the one I’d come for sitting atop, legs swinging and eyes wide as he looked out across the crowds of people gathered for him. I beckoned for him to follow. He hopped down and reached for my hand, then hesitated.
“I…I didn’t mean for any of this,” he said quietly. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. If I’d known…”
“Known what?” I said, caught somewhat off guard by my own gravely, seldom-used voice. “Known the sorrow of a mother? The pain of a father? The bitterness of a sister, or the guilt of a brother?”
The boy was silent, but I was not.
“You, all of you, never understand. This doesn’t end with family and friends. I’ve seen it, time and time again. I’ve watched strangers weep and wail and harbor responsibility over someone they never really knew. I’ve watched lives crumble, and since the beginning of time, I’ve said nothing. Because…”
Here I took a deep breath.
“I could say it is what it is. But that doesn’t mean it should be.”
He nodded and looked away, blinking back tears. We stood in silence for a while longer, watching the unraveled world slowly begin to knit itself together. Then, with one last glance over my shoulder, I took his hand in mine.
And I led him home.