The Weight of Nothing
The box was surprisingly small. Henry’s parents meant it to be a gift or a peace offering. Just a piece of the whole.
The box was cardboard, dyed blue. Like a tiny shoebox. They probably assumed she would get an urn. Or bury it. Somewhere.
She looked at the box in her lap to avoid making eye contact with her therapist, Janet.
“Why do you want to give it back to his parents?” Janet asked.
Dana shifted in her chair, but she couldn’t get comfortable. “It’s hard to explain.”
Janet waited.
Dana sighed. It was a long, slow sigh. Her chest hurt like she couldn’t quite catch her breath no matter how deeply she inhaled.
“Have you opened the box?” Janet asked.
“No.” The box quivered in her hands. Dana realized she was afraid. For some reason, the Little Prince and his sheep came to mind, but the box the pilot drew for him had holes in it. There was no need for holes in this box.
But Dana knew, like Janet knew, that what she could imagine was probably better or worse than reality. So, Dana removed the lid and stared.
“There’s nothing in it,” she said quietly. Dana felt a peace she hadn’t felt in months. Like waking up from a deep sleep. “There’s nothing in it,” she said again, lifting her gaze to look at Janet.
Janet wrote on her notepad. There was only the sound of scratching on paper for a minute. “If there’s nothing in it, why give it back?”
Dana wondered. It was a good question.
In her hesitation, Janet asked, “Dana, is there really nothing in the box?”
The question caught Dana off guard. “Yes—”
“Show me.”
She looked at Janet.
Janet looked at her.
The box was still open on her lap, the lid on the floor. She didn’t remember dropping it. Dana tilted the box to empty it into her hand. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Janet’s normally serene face suddenly tense, stunned.
Dana cupped her hand and held it out to her.
“I’m holding nothing,” she said, her voice wavering slightly. “You would say it’s impossible to hold nothing. But you’re wrong.
It is possible, and it’s the saddest thing in the world. At least, the saddest thing in my life.
You’re looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. I probably wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t, at least a little bit.
And you’re thinking: it’s not nothing.
It’s Henry’s ashes.
But the thing is, it’s nothing to me.
What am I supposed to do with nothing?
This box, these ashes—they wouldn’t help me remember him. Just remind me that he’s dead.
His parents—they weren’t giving me a peace offering. They were handing me a punishment. A burden, shared. And I probably deserve it. They blame me for the car accident. And sometimes I blame myself too—if I hadn’t pointed—” her breath caught. “Well, you know. But I need to give it back. Because it’s too heavy, the nothingness.”
Tears began to fall down her cheeks. This was usually Janet’s cue to say that it’s okay to cry.
Instead, she put her notepad aside and reached out to her, holding Dana’s outstretched hand in both of hers, like a clamshell.
“Is it still too heavy now?”
Oriana Siska is a poet and writer living in Sonoma County, California.