The Physics of Grief

The pool was empty at 5 AM, which was exactly how Marcus wanted it. The water lapped against the tiles as he slipped into lane four, his body remembering the rhythm of swimming even when his mind couldn't remember anything else anymore. Six months since the accident, and water was the only place where the weight on his chest felt manageable.

His iphone sat on the bench, screen dark, containing three unread messages from his mother and one from his brother about baseball season starting up without him. Marcus had been the catcher, his brother the pitcher. They'd been talking about going pro together since they were twelve. Now his shoulder wouldn't even let him throw a ball across the yard.

The bull that had thrown him hadn't been malicious - just doing what bulls did when something spooked them. But that didn't change the outcome: three surgeries, one career ended, one brother who wouldn't look him in the eye because he'd pushed Marcus into helping with the livestock that day. "It'll be quick cash," Jordan had said. "We'll get that deposit down on the apartment together."

Marcus finished his laps and pulled himself out of the pool, water streaming off him like something being shed. He'd started running at night because sleep wouldn't come, because the apartment was too quiet, because his shoulder throbbed when he lay still. Three miles became five, five became ten, until his lungs burned and his legs gave out and for a few hours, exhaustion would override everything else.

The iphone lit up. Another message from Jordan: *Mom's making tacos. Come over?*

Marcus toweled off, thinking about how forgiveness was supposed to work. Whether it was something you chose or something that happened to you, like weather. Whether some things were too broken to fix, or whether broken things could still work, just differently.

He picked up his phone and typed back: *I'll be there at six.*

The screen reflected his face - someone he almost recognized anymore. That would have to be enough for now.