Driver's Licence

Three years ago today, you woke up and gulped down your favourite iced coffee. You showered, sprayed deodorant under your arms, kissed my cheek goodbye. Slower mornings are my thing; I lifted my head slightly from the pillow and kissed you back. Then I burrowed deeper into the sheets and listened to your footsteps fade down the staircase and out the front door to chase the day.

I admired your hunger for living. You didn’t even own Netflix. The TV rarely lit, your feet rarely on land. When you weren’t working, you were in your boat catching fish from the wide blue bay. Sunshine. Salt. Snapper and shark. Sky, stingray and dugong. Fishing bait, cold beer and tackle boxes.

Three years ago today, you moved through the evening unaware it was your last.

The last sunset, the last full moon seen with human eyes, the last dusk dissolving into stars. You had no idea what waited for you in the night; a slasher was on his way to cut you open and discard you in the bush. There was no sign that you’d never see us, your friends, your family, again. The morning would arrive just like every other day, right?

Yeah. It did.

For us.

Not for you.

With each sun rise I become sadder. Because I expect morning to stay hidden on the other side of the world to leave our town in darkness, remaining faithful to the night that stole you. But the sun keeps rising as if it never happened at all.

Three years, yet it feels like three weeks.

The most frightening part of life after you is time has stopped for me. I live in derealisation, asking how three years could pass when I never moved?

The worst part about today is what being human still expects of me.

Since I've become unhooked from linear time, I forgot to renew my driver’s licence before it expired. To keep driving legally, I have to present myself at the transport centre like a functioning member of society. So while pain sears my heart and nausea bends me in half, I must get into my car and enter the world. I park neatly among other cars, as if you are not dead.

I walk into the transport centre wearing dark sunglasses, hiding from fluorescent lighting. Voices bounce off the walls; if only these chatty people knew what I am carrying today. Oh, that’s her!? The girlfriend of the young man who was murdered? That’s her. Isn't it his anniversary today, I saw it in the news!

I pay for my new licence and it occurs to me, your death anniversary will be printed on my main document of identity. Next to my face. A date I will see every day. From now on, each renewal will be due on this day. Your day. Permanently stitched into who I am forced to be.

I take the new shiny card and walk towards the sliding doors, when my eyes land on the wall calendar.

It insists I have survived three years.

My body disagrees.

Three years ago today.