Zihuatanejo

“When was the last time you visited Elena’s grave?” Julie asks. We’re sitting on the terrace of my small apartment in Zihuatanejo, an open bottle of wine on the table between us.

I don’t know what to say. Why does it matter when I last visited the grave? We’re all allowed to mourn in our own way. Mine was to escape—to start a new life 2,000 miles away.

“I can’t remember,” I say. “I don’t live in the same city as the grave anymore. You do realize how weird it would be for me to fly up to California just to go to the cemetery, right?”

“Don’t you think it’s important?” Julie scolds. “She was your sister, too.”

We often argue about things related to Elena. What would Elena have thought when I quit my fancy academic job to live in this small beach town in Mexico as a freelance writer? What would Elena say about Julie’s new solar panels on her house? Julie projects her own judgments onto Elena now that she’s gone, but Elena was never one to judge.

“Why did you come down here, Julie?”

“I wanted to see you, to make sure you’re happy with, I don’t know, being here. I was reading that depression might be genetic.”

After Elena’s suicide, Julie developed deep lines on her face. She is only 28, but she looks ten years older. I’m older than she is, but no one would guess that anymore.

“I’m happy,” I tell her. “Teaching left me no time to write. My whole life was in a classroom or grading papers.”

Silence. Silence means she's telling herself secrets. Good. I don't want to hear them.

“It is a beautiful town. You’re learning Spanish—that’s really cool. And the sunsets here are incredible. Elena would have loved them.”

“Why don’t you move down here too?” I ask. “You could be my neighbor.”

I know she would never move. She has her house and her job and her garden and her solar panels. She has Elena’s grave to take care of. I nod to the African violet sitting on the bookshelf.

“I keep Elena’s favorite plant by the window. It’s something. A gravestone is just a symbol. She’s not really there anymore. You know that, right?”

Julie ignores me. She checks her phone, and I stare at the wilting violets. They don’t do well in the heat—this isn’t anything like their natural climate. But they’re surviving.

Julie asks, “Why is it so easy for you?”

As she finishes the question, she’s already started sobbing. The waves are crashing loudly into the shore today. I can hear them from here on the terrace. I look out over the bay, my new home, and think, Elena would have loved this. Then I reach over to hug my sister. It’s peaceful, all of it, even her soft sobs.

“It’s not easy,” I say. “Elena is dead. That was her choice. But we are still alive. That can mean something great, if you let it.”