Ashley

It's late at night and I should be sleeping. But instead, I'm googling, "What was the date one hundred and twenty-two weeks ago?" I can't sleep until I know. Snapchat tells me it was that many weeks ago when she sent me that one and only snap. That snap that I ignored for reasons that suddenly seem invalid. Was that the last time I had contact with her? Was it?? Google tells me the date of the snap was February 11, 2021. My text messages show that I reached out to her on Mother's Day, May 9, 2021. A few weeks later, we met at the park with our girls. I exhale a tiny fragment. The dates are the proof I craved that I didn't completely drop the friendship ball.

But I'm still sobbing in the kitchen. I'm still asking Chad, "Did I do enough for her??" Because she's dead.

Everything I had suspected was true... and so much worse. I suspected a boyfriend with rough hands. But not a crushed eye socket. I suspected addiction. But not loosing consciousness. I suspected so much pain. But not utter hopelessness. 

Ashley is the first person I knew who lost her life to addiction. But I'm young and I fear she won't be the last. This knowledge, this grief presses hard on my chest. I close my eyes. I do not sleep.