Angry at a Dead Man

Yesterday, I received a terrible shock; one of my coworkers had a heart attack on the job and collapsed. He never recovered. I wasn't working Wednesday night; I learned of his passing when I came to the store to pick up a handful of necessities. I didn't cry when I was told. I finished my shopping and made my way out to of the store, feeling the emotion build as I neared my car. I fumbled with the key, taking a few deep breaths before settling enough to unlock the door. The tears came when I slumped into the seat and slammed the door closed behind me. I called home to say that I would be while; the cell phone beeped angrily in my ear before I could finish and the battery ran out. I was angry, and to my own dismay, I realized I was angry at him, angry at a dead man for dying. How completely irrational; how completely normal for someone who is grieving.

Heart disease ran in his family, but he was so terribly thin. I don't think I ever saw him eat, except on special nights when we would have a cookout or hold a potluck. He was young, too. But he smoked, and that was why I was mad at him. He knew the risks, and he smoked. I love too many people who smoke, and his death was a poignant reminder of the effects that cigarettes can have on the heart. It made me angry at all the people I care about who haven't kicked the habit; it made me mad at myself for having smoked in the past. Last night, the smokers still practiced their nicotine rituals, even though the conversation was quiet and half-hearted. I wondered, did they even for a moment feel the way I had? Did they think to themselves that they could be the next to leave behind a spouse? A child?

I used to take his baseball cap off and turn it around backwards. It became a game, and some nights it was very difficult for me to catch him off guard. He had an incredible mind for song trivia; I could ask him the name of the artist for almost any song we heard at work, and he could spout out the artist, album, and even the year. He knew backstories behind the lyrics, too. On our lunch break, he would get into one of the motorized carts and do a tour of the store, popping into the break room to buy a bottle of diet soda before motoring out the door, waving like the queen. I didn't know him well, but he was a part of my life and I will miss him. This will take some getting used to.

I think of him--sitting on that motorized cart, feet propped up on the basket, waving that silly queen mum wave--and I smile.

And I'm not angry anymore.

--Gaia_song