Page 28 of The Ecstasy of Sin

I don’t comment on it, but Ronald look like he’s lost a lot of weight since I last saw him, and he didn’t have much to lose to begin with. His cheeks are sunken in, and the circles under his eyes are darker than I remember.

It’s not exactly unusual for those of us that are homeless to look malnourished, but the state of him goes beyond that. I can see it in the grey pallor of his skin.

I hate to admit it, but his sickly appearance triggers my anxiety.

I slide my chocolate pudding cup over to him, but he shakes his head at me. “I don’t like chocolate,” I lie, pushing it a little closer.

A sad smile spreads slowly across his face, but he grabs it and sets it next to his own.

“How have you been feeling?”

Ronald doesn’t answer me for a moment, and my anxiety morphs into dread. I didn’t dwell on the feeling earlier, but I recognize my trigger now. He looks like my mother did when she was dying.

“Oh, little bird, you know,” he begins, glancing up and letting his glassy eyes scan the crowd. I hold my breath, waiting for his next words. “My cancer is back, and it spread. They can’t do anything for me now.”

I didn’t know he had cancer, but I don’t fault him for keeping that information private. His confession stings, and brings with it the flash flood of grief.

Loss is no stranger to me. It lives in my bones, threaded through the lattice of my DNA. Grief is my devoted traveling companion in life. It has grown so big over the years—a testament to all of the life-altering loss and tragedy I’ve survived. It feeds on every sadness I find, big or small.

Ronald’s reality feeds it now. My grief breathes like a living thing, its ghostly lungs expanding through me. It stretches inside of me, making my whole body ache from the weight of it.

“I’m so sorry, Ron.”

“Don’t be, little bird. I’m a weary traveler, long overdue for a good rest.” I can see the exhaustion all over his face. “I just finished re-reading my favourite book, and now I can pass it along to you.”

My throat tightens with emotion as he reaches over and grasps the big book, lifting it lovingly in the cradle of his thin, pale hands. He offers it to me, and when my gaze lifts to meet his, a single tear falls from the corner of his eye, leaving a glistening trail down his cheek.

Despair washes through me as I reach out with shaking hands, holding the opposite end of his most prized possession. My vision blurs—tears beginning to flow as my sadness overtakes me.

“Don’t cry, little bird. For I have lived a great adventure, and the next one awaits.” He speaks like he belongs in the fantasy books he loves so much. I’ve always adored that about him.

I was never good at hiding my emotions. My pain has always felt so much bigger than me, like I can’t fit it all inside of my body. I don’t wish I could stop myself from grieving with him, though.

I always believed people deserved to see their pain mirrored in the eyes of their friends, their family, and even strangers on the street. Humans have grown so disconnected from one another, and I try my hardest to make connections with people as often as I can. Even though those opportunities are limited for someone like me.

Who knows how long we have on this Earth together, we’re all just lonely travelers trying to find a little happiness during our brief, fragile existence here.

For a moment, I regret printing out the application to end my life. I find myself a little relieved that I lost it before I had the chance to submit it.

Despite his bravery, I see it in his eyes, and the burn is bittersweet; Ronald wishes he could stay, so he could live a thousand more lives reading a thousand more books.

He doesn’t hesitate when he relinquishes his book to me, and that only sharpens the hurt. It’s a whisper of his acceptance, of his resignation for what’s to come.

I look at the book where it rests in my hands, a strip of black tape holding the frail binding together. The title, A Tower of Sea and Stars, overlays a classic image of a wizard standing on a tower, brilliant light emitting from his great, white staff.

“I can’t wait to read it. Thank you, Ronald.”

He smiles at me, and any evidence of his sorrow disappears. He turns back to his meal, digging into the two chocolate pudding cups that await him.

I pull my backpack out from under me and tuck the book safely in the front pocket, alongside my library loan, making a silent promise to myself that I’ll read it next.

With the precious cargo now safely stowed away, I return to my tray and attempt to finish my food. I have to force every bite into my mouth, because Ronald’s news has torn open a wound I kept stitched shut by overworking myself every day.

Images of my mother and her physical state as she died of cancer flash through my mind, dragging me back into the hollow ache of the past.

I barely notice when Ronald grabs his empty tray and stands up. I force myself to face him and offer him a smile when he tells me he hopes to see me again. We exchange goodbyes, and I drift off again as the image of him walking away triggers another memory.

The despair is so profound it has a numbing effect, spreading through me like ice as it steals the warmth from me like a merciless leech.