The Weight of Empty Things

Elena hadn't left the house in three weeks. The cable guy was the first person she'd spoken to since the funeral, and even then, she just pointed toward the living room and let him work in silence.

He was young—early twenties—with a name tag that said "Marcus" and hands that moved with practiced efficiency. She watched from the kitchen doorway as he coiled the black cable behind the television, his movements precise, almost tender. This was the third cable company she'd called. The first two hadn't shown up.

"Your dog's been watching me," Marcus said, startling her. He didn't turn around. "Big guy. Looks like he's seen some things."

Elena glanced at Buster, her late husband's golden retriever, curled on the couch. He'd been sleeping more since David died. Some days, he wouldn't eat.

"He's old," she said. "We both are."

Marcus finished tightening something with a wrench. "That's quite the pool you've got back there. Saw it through the window when I pulled up."

She didn't respond.

"My uncle had one like that," he continued, finally turning to face her. His expression was carefully neutral. "After his wife passed, he couldn't drain it fast enough. Said the water kept reminding him of everything they'd never do again."

Elena's throat tightened. "It's already drained."

"I know. I saw." He gestured toward the sliding glass doors. "But there's still water in the deep end. Always is, no matter how long you let it sit."

The silence stretched between them, heavy and unbearable. This was it—this was the moment someone would say something trite about healing, about time, about how the worst was behind her. She could feel the words coming, could feel herself about to scream.

"Anyway," Marcus said, gathering his tools. "Cable's working. You should have signal now."

He paused at the door, his hand on the frame. "My uncle used to say grief was a bear—something you had to keep feeding until it was too full to eat you anymore." He shook his head. "I never really understood what he meant until last winter."

Elena realized she was gripping the counter so hard her knuckles had turned white. "What happened?"

Marcus looked at her for a long moment, really looked at her, like he was seeing everything she'd been carrying alone. "Lost my sister," he said quietly. "She was twenty-seven."

The air left the room. Or maybe it finally entered it.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Me too." He opened the door, then stopped. "You know what helped? Not draining the pool."

"What?"

"Not trying to fix it," he said. "Just sitting with it. Even when it's empty, even when it's just concrete and cracked tiles and you're alone with all that space where something used to be." He nodded toward the backyard. "Sometimes you just need someone to sit beside you and say 'this is fucking terrible' and mean it."

He left before she could respond. Elena stood in the kitchen for a long time, listening as his truck drove away, then walked to the sliding doors. The pool was there—a hollow, blue basin in the earth, holding maybe an inch of stagnant water at the bottom. She'd been meaning to finish draining it for weeks.

Buster padded up behind her, pressing his warm side against her leg. Together they stood looking at the empty pool, at the water that would always collect in the deepest part no matter how carefully you tried to remove it, and for the first time since David died, Elena didn't feel like she was drowning.