Beached

His eyes are my eyes.

They used to say that my godfather had the sea in his irises and his easy azure would keep the last rays of sunlight dancing a little longer during each horizon, and he must’ve believed it—that he was from the ocean, that he had the waters that were still pulled by the ancient desire of the moon—for he took a boat into the Mediterranean and never returned. His sunglasses did. They were missing their lenses.

A week after the 21st anniversary of his suicide, I meet you. Your shirt is ripped along the neck. The words seem to slink out of your mouth. You are tired, more tired than you’ve ever been, and you cannot sleep. You are pouring the waters he poured. And you are going to kill yourself.

The hospital is dimly lit. The shadows are colluding in the corners. I have a few more minutes to my call.

I should say something, shouldn’t I? You continue that there is no way to go on. There is no beauty, for you are ugly. There is no life, for there is only death. How can anything be when all has been taken away? How can others go on in this terrible, blinding place?

My godfather once held me and told me I was the sun. My godfather said that there was so much hope in me for I come from hope itself. His hands were worn from years of working in the few functioning coal mines in Poland. He told me that I was to create that hope for others, too. His hands were little fires, fueling the world.

I should say something, shouldn’t I? The poor, oozing light falls on your lips as you tell me that the universe was not born from hope, but nothingness. You were just going back to it. You were becoming it again, and finally, you would belong.

I say nothing. I sit with you. I offer a tissue that dries your eyes. I write later that you had suicidal ideation, with a plan and intent. I suggest prescribing something for anxiety.

My staff tells me I did a good job with the case. He says I should never say anything outright to a patient so close to ending their life. "It’s like they’re drowning," he says. "They’ll pull any hand down with them."

I nod. I go home. I see myself in the dim mirror. My eyes are empty, dark, like they belong at the bottom of the ocean.