The Shape of Your Absence #3
“I would be honored,” I say carefully, “if you’d be my date.”
Her breath catches.
“And… if you’d consider speaking. In Lena’s honor.”
Tears rise in her eyes instantly.
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“You’re her partner too,” she says quietly.
“I am,” I agree. “But you carry something unique. You loved her in a way that changed her. And she changed you.”
Her thumb rubs against mine unconsciously.
“You think I can do that?” she whispers.
“I know you can.”
Knox reappears with a dark chocolate torte with raspberry coulis. He sits the rich and decadent final course down and looks between us.
“She’d be proud,” he says simply.
When he leaves us alone again, Zaria squeezes my hand.
“I’ll do it,” she says softly. “For her.”
“For us,” I correct gently.
She smiles through her tears. “For us.”
The restaurant is quiet around us. No ghosts. No suffocating guilt. Just candlelight and conversation with the woman I love.
As we stand to leave Zaria slips her arm through mine.
“You know,” she says lightly, “this is a dangerous precedent.”
“How.”
“You keep planning romantic gestures like this, I might actually relax.”
I smirk. “Wait until you see what else I have up my sleeve.”
Today we stopped carrying unnecessary guilt and decided to step into what Lena wanted for us all along. A love of our own.
Zaria is working tonight, and Caleb invited me over for a guys’ night. Caleb’s living room shifts once the rest of the guys pile in.
Ahmir is loud first, as usual.
“Look at Professor Grief over here,” he teases lightly, pulling me into a half hug. “You shower today?”
“Barely,” I mutter.
Knox claps my shoulder on his way to the bar cart. “Good. We don’t trust men who too put together.”
Maverick and James Jr follow behind him as CJ trails him with a deck of cards already in his hand.
“Table’s ready,” CJ announces like he owns the mortgage.
Within minutes, the poker table is set up. Chips stacked. Cards shuffled. Scotch poured.
I don’t drink much these days but tonight I let the amber burn settle into my chest. It doesn’t erase anything. It just softens the edges. For a few hands, nobody brings up Lena. They let me laugh and lose money. I argue about bad hands and bluff terribly.
Ahmir throws his head back laughing when I fold too early.
“Grief got you playing scared too?” he jokes.
“Nigga shut up,” I fire back.
It feels good to say something that isn’t heavy. After my second scotch, the laughter comes easier. Caleb watches me over the rim of his glass.
Satisfied.
But eventually, the conversation shifts. I don’t expect anything less.
Maverick leans back in his chair, serious now. “You know you’re not in this alone, right?”
I nod slowly.
“We loved Lena too,” Knox adds quietly. “That wasn’t just your loss.”
James Jr flicks a chip between his fingers.
“And Ajaih,” Maverick continues, “she’s taking it hard. That was her baby sister. She’s filled with regret wishing they’d connected sooner.”
I sigh.
“I know.”
“She won’t say it,” Knox says, “but she feels like she’s supposed to be strong for everybody.”
Maverick points at me with two fingers. “Call her.”
“I will.”
James Jr clears his throat. “And Amiyah,” he adds. “That was her best friend. Don’t assume she’s good just because she’s smiling.”
I glance at him.
“She could use your love too,” he says plainly. “Don’t disappear into your own grief so deep that you forget others are grieving too.”
I nod again.
He’s right.
Ahmir takes a slow sip of his drink. “And lean on Kim and Pastor,” he adds. “They spiritually grounded as hell. They don’t run from hard seasons.”
Caleb adds. “Pastor told me he’s been checking on you weekly.”
I let out a small breath. “He has.”
David Sr calls. Texts. Sends scriptures. Not preachy. Just present.
“He sees you as family,” Caleb says firmly. “You and Zaria.”
Zaria. Her name alone steadies me. Knox tosses a chip into the pot.
“Y’all built something with Lena,” he says. “That don’t disappear. It just shifts.”
Maverick nods. “Grief ain’t a solo sport,” he adds. “You let us carry some of it.”
The room goes quiet for a beat as I look around the table.
My brother. A man who had to bury his wife before he was ready. Not only did he fight grief and win. He found the strength to love again and be happy.
“You really think I’ll be okay?” I ask quietly.
Caleb snorts.
“No,” he says bluntly. “You’ll be wrecked sometimes.”
The guys chuckle.
“But you won’t be alone,” he finishes.
That part matters more. CJ deals the next hand.
“Alright, enough feelings,” he mutters. “Y’all making me uncomfortable.”
Laughter breaks the tension.
I take another sip of scotch as they get back to talking trash.
They argue about sports. Ahmir accuses Knox of cheating.
James Jr laughs so hard he knocks over his chips.
And somewhere between the third and fourth hand, I realize something important.
The grief is still there. It still aches like a mothafucka.
But it doesn’t feel like it’s suffocating me tonight.
Because they’re right. Lena wasn’t loved by one man.
She was loved by all of us. And I’m not carrying this alone.
Sunday mornings feel different now. Everything is so quiet without Lena. She brought life to every room she was in and now the silence feels suffocating.
Lena didn’t want a funeral. She said she lived her whole life imprisoned by her body and she didn’t want to leave this earth in one.
We made sure we didn’t put her in a box.
We took her to the beach instead. Her ashes scattered into saltwater.
Paper lanterns floating into the night sky—each one filled with letters we wrote to her.
Words we never wanted to say out loud. Promises. Gratitude. Confessions.
Paradise.
She got paradise.
Walking into David Sr’s church without his baby girl makes my chest tighten.
The choir is already singing when I slide into the pew near the front. Zaria squeezes my hand before sitting beside me. She has a beautiful understanding of her faith and she is often at church on Sundays. Kimberly catches my eye from across the aisle and gives me a soft nod.
When David Sr steps to the pulpit, the room stills. He begins like he always does—steady voice—grounding presence.
When he sees me. He stops mid-sentence. The entire sanctuary holds its breath as he steps down from the pulpit. Walks directly to me and pulls me into his arms.
Tight.
I try to hold it together.
I fail.
It breaks open inside me all at once.
Six months of taping the pain shut.
Six months of swallowing tears.
Gone.
I cry from somewhere ancient. Somewhere beneath pride. Beneath control.
“I miss her,” I choke out. “I wish it was me.”
The words slip out before I can stop them. Kimberly is beside us now with her arms wrapped around both of us.
David Sr pulls back just enough to look me in the eye.
“No,” he says firmly. “No, son.”
He turns slightly before addressing the congregation but keeping a hand on my shoulder.
“This,” he says, voice thick, “is the man that loved my baby so much that she saw paradise before God called her home.”
The room is quiet except for sniffles.
“He made sure she felt freedom from her body. He made sure she knew love without limits.”
I shake my head, still crying. David Sr turns back to me.
“You’re still here because your life has purpose and promise,” he says gently. “And you honor her by walking in that purpose and fulfilling those promises.”
He pauses and quotes softly, “‘Psalm 34:18 says: The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.’”
His thumb presses into my shoulder. “You are crushed, yes,” he says. “But you are not abandoned.”
I nod, unable to speak. He pulls me into one more embrace before returning to the pulpit. The sermon shifts after that. It’s about love. It’s about living in a way that makes our angels in heaven proud. When service ends, half the congregation hugs me. Not out of pity but love.
We make our way to brunch after service. Just me, Kimberly, and David Sr at a small table by the window. Zaria had a meeting at the advocacy center, but she kissed my cheek before leaving and told me to call her when I was done.
Kimberly reaches across the table and takes my hand.
“We love you,” she says plainly. “You and Zaria.”
David Sr nods. “You both are family.”
I swallow hard.
“Thank you,” I manage.
“You’re welcome to lean on us,” Kimberly continues. “To grieve with us.”
David Sr adds, “But don’t let the grief stunt the possibilities of joy and happiness.”
I nod slowly.
“She shows up,” Kimberly says softly, smiling through tears. “In the smallest ways.”
“Like what?” I ask quietly.
“The wind at the beach,” she replies. “A song at the right moment. A random burst of laughter that feels like her.”
David Sr smiles faintly. “Peace that passes understanding.”
I think about the lanterns. About the way the sky swallowed them whole.
“I want to live in a way that honors her,” I say.
“You’re already doing it,” David Sr replies.
Kimberly squeezes my hand.
“Grow from your grief,” she says gently. “Don’t live inside it.”
I sit back and breathe a little easier.
“Thank you,” I say again. “For loving me. For loving Zaria.”
David Sr smiles warmly.
“We don’t love conditionally in this family,” he says. “And we don’t let our children’s love stories end just because heaven called one home.”
That makes me smile.
When I leave brunch, the sun is warm against my face. The ache is still there. Today it feels less like a wound and more like a scar. Scars mean you survived.