Quiet in July

“How’s work?” I muttered.

Robby sighed and looked down, swiveling in his chair so he could see me. I was lying on the floor, perfectly still.

“A little stressful,” he said.

“Bummer.”

“You really need to find something to do.”

“I have nothing to do,” I told him. “When will you be done?”

“You could finish unpacking.”

I sighed.

“You could write a blog post.”

“I have nothing going on.”

“You need to write more of those, Hannah.”

I looked at the ceiling.

“Seriously. People like your blog, but you’re not at all consistent.”

“You’re right. I know.”

“So, go do that.”

I used to say that I’d rather feel humiliated than bored. This was during high school, when humiliation was soul-crushing and, for me, frequent. So, the comment was meant to be taken lightly, but was also a genuine statement as to how much I detested boredom. It’s rarely been a problem, though. I’m too scattered to be particularly productive, which means I’ve always stayed busy.

Robby and I moved to Wilmington on July 1^st, and I wasn’t bored. Our friend drove down from Virginia to help us unpack. She stayed two nights. We bought a few furniture pieces from a thrift store and filled the fridge and set art pieces in strange vintage frames. We walked through Wilmington. My brother had died four days prior, so I was too exhausted to feel anything but heavy.

I went to Charlotte a few days later for the funeral. I was distraught and slightly numb, but not bored. When I came back, things felt quiet. I didn’t continue unpacking, although I said I would. I had originally planned to get a job at a restaurant or brewery over the summer, but after Stewart died, I decided to lay low. I didn’t have it in me to gracefully deal with shitty customers, and besides, we had a few out-of-town adventures planned toward the end of the summer.

Until then, though, I wake up. I sometimes run in the mornings, but usually don’t. I “unpack,” which means picking up a toolbox or laptop case or jug of protein powder, realizing I don’t know where to put it, setting it on a table, then sitting on the couch. I try to write a poem, then realize I don’t like my poems these days, then remember that I better get that shit together since I start grad school in a month, then sigh. I walk the dogs. I consider going downtown, then remember I shouldn’t spend money since I don’t have a job right now, which is fine because I didn’t feel like walking around anyway, so I go to the “study” (a room with some boxes and a tiny desk) and say hey to Robby, who tells me to write a blog post.

Strangely, I don’t detest this boredom as much as I would have a few months ago. I’ve always equated boredom with failure: I don’t have a demanding enough schedule, or I should be using this time to volunteer, or my schedule is plenty busy but I’m overlooking tasks on purpose. Being bored is a mistake.

But this boredom—which, don’t get me wrong, I’m still not at all enjoying—has demanded that I think about Stewart. I wouldn’t do it otherwise. Or I would try to at night, but in a half-assed sort of way. I would snap memories of him open and closed like a paper fan. Two flicks of my wrist, then I’d sleep.

This prolonged transition, though, is too vacuous for total distraction. There are bound to be times throughout the day when I picture Stewart dancing, or doing a handstand, or making me so mad when we were doing yardwork one time that I hurled my plastic rake at his head and missed and then tried to tackle him and he laughed because we both knew damn well I was never catching him but I chased him around the front yard and inside and up the stairs while he jokingly yelled “Mom! Mom!” in a squealy voice because he wasn’t actually scared of me and I think we eventually just kind of swatted at each other and I shouted that he needed to help rake the damn lawn and then stormed outside and threw my rake again.

He’d laugh at that one.

Soon, I’ll have to make time to truly remember him. It’s an exhausting process. I start with an image of Stewart, usually just his head and shoulders, standing in a field, and the memories begin drifting around him like dandelion seeds. I catch the tail of one and follow it all the way through. Sometimes, by the end, I’ve forgotten that he died.

My cousin comes to visit tomorrow. Next week, Robby and I are meeting my parents at the beach and then heading to upstate New York before I start school. My days will have a rhythm again. I’ll have a time when I need to wake up and things I need to do before I sleep. It’s thrilling. I hated July. It felt like a barrage of empty hours to be filled with memories of Stewart. Now, I realize it was a deep inhale.

Storms Within, James Darden