In the end it was a bloodless affair. Nothing about that has ever felt right . As my friend William Carlos wrote after leaving the hospital that night, “In the morning, I won't even have a scar.”
It seems so wrong that she would, that she COULD go so quietly. No violent outburst. No wicked wound to shock and horrify those who laid eyes and hands upon her on those last hours. It was as if she'd simply slipped out in the night, casually leaving her body behind to distract us all while she made her daring escape.
I still have her favorite bowie knife, tucked away in its leather sheath and stained with the blood from those late-night bouts of cutting.
Few things dare to be as precious as this.
In the end, it was a bloodless affair, except that it wasn't. I have never had occasion to mention it until just now and its not the kind of thing you tell other people anyway. Certainly not a part of any polite conversation.
On the night my daughter died, I started to bleed. And somehow I was thankful for that. I didn't have to befriend her bowie knife. Somehow my body understood Loss in a way that my mind would take months, even years to come to terms with.
Today it has been three years and two months since Ashlie slipped out the side door and left me behind … bleeding and broken. It feels like yesterday and also tomorrow.