Statistics of Grief

He lined up the vitamins with surgical precision: D3 for bone preservation, B12 for neural health, Omega-3 for cardiovascular maintenance. The morning pharmacy on his kitchen counter, a colorful defense against the dark statistics that now defined his life. I leaned against the doorframe, nursing coffee that had gone cold an hour ago, watching my oldest friend perform this daily ritual.

"You're going to be late for your match," I said, not for the first time.

"Haven't missed a day in seven years," Liam replied, not turning around. "Consistency improves outcomes by 23%."

That was my friend now—everything quantified, everything measured. Since the diagnosis, he'd approached his remaining time like a deposition, organizing and controlling what he could. Padel, our weekend escape for twenty years, had become something else entirely. His opponent, a muscular woman named Sarah who hit with deliberate mercy, never broke their losing streak. Some unspoken agreement between them.

That afternoon, I sat in the bleachers watching Sarah play while Liam narrated baseball mechanics from the bench beside me. He was analyzing pitch velocity and exit angles, his voice growing thinner each week.

"There's real poetry in that follow-through," he insisted.

I wanted to scream. Instead I said, "You'll be back on the field by opening day."

He adjusted his baseball cap over hair that wasn't there anymore. "The vitamin regimen is working. Latest scans show—"

"Liam." I covered his hand with mine. "You don't have to pretend with me."

The stadium noise swelled and faded. For the first time since his diagnosis, he stopped calculating.

"I'm terrified," he said, so softly I almost missed it.

His arm against mine, warm and solid. This was the real medicine—not the vitamins, not the padel matches, not the optimistic statistics. This was what we'd always been: two friends sitting on a bench, watching the game, not saying everything.

Two weeks later, I scattered his ashes behind home plate. The dust coated my hands, settling into the lines of my palms like fate. The batting cage lights flickered on, and I finally understood why he'd needed those rituals. Some things you can count. Some things you just believe.

His ex-wife had the obituary removed everything but his professional achievements. That was fine. The people who know you best don't need the public record. I threw his vitamin supply in the trash and for the first time in months, didn't count anything at all.

Beyond the outfield fence, spring training was underway. A new season. Same game. Different friend alone on the bench, watching everything.