the chicken salad

The genesis of my departure seems almost ancient, but the revelation of its necessity came on Easter Sunday, April 20th, 2014. The celebration of Christ's resurrection, the anniversary of Hitler's birthday and the tragedy at Columbine... the international day of pot-smoking. I suppose if ever a day required marijuana it would be Hitler's birthday. I sat stoically uncomfortable in the pew of a Catholic church, watching my dearest friend embrace a ritual he has long despised, for the sake of love. My friend was baptised into the Catholic faith in order to appease his Catholic ex-wife, whom he intends to remarry.

I sat next to his young son Rocco and fondly recognized that anxious solemnity that well-behaved kids exhibit in church. Rocco said to me, "We have the longest mass." I replied, "It's a massive mass?" and he smiled. That kid is as sharp as they come. His mom told me per his latest standardized tests and parent/teacher conferences he's on track to be taking college courses at U of I in high school. It was funny how unsurprising that news was, as I could've predicted that when I met him at the age of two.

So I was sitting next to my friend's misty-eyed mother when the only person who ever meant everything to me was emailing me. And I wouldn't know until the following day. But reading her words the day after they were sent and after I had departed Iowa City for what will most likely be a long time proved to be very overwhelming. I have to admit, it seemed rather passive-aggressive that someone who promised to call me 4 years ago and didn't would say, basically 30 minutes after I arrived in the city, "if you come back through Iowa City again let me know--we can get together somewhere." I was there, near her. We were probably minutes apart as she typed that and I'm pretty sure she knew that. I highly doubt she'd "get together" with me. I just wish I knew why she feels the need to lie to me. If I come back through Iowa City? If she'd "get together" with me, I'd drive the length of the globe to get to Iowa City tomorrow.

Hollow words... Is there anything more painful to hear?

I'm sick of being a goddamned loser.

Today I wandered through my sister's empty house and thought about all the missions that I have failed. I thought about how deeply I wanted to talk with my ex-friend, to hear her voice and explore her mind. But tomorrow I leave, the same fractured man that arrived and left no mark. My alcohol-drenched, psoriasis-ridden body carrying nothing but a disheveled heart and frayed wires into a meaningless sunset.
I cried today, but it wasn't when I said goodbye to my mother, or to my sister, or to the pets or to the home or the city or the landscape that I've poured over this past year. I cried because of this:

I said to my sister, "I don't know if you noticed, but I was wasted yesterday. I got an email from [her] and I didn't know how to deal with it. So, sorry if you noticed."

"Actually I didn't notice," she replied.

"At least the chicken salad was good," I said. My sister had used some leftover chicken to make chicken salad. I cried because I ate some chicken salad and it tasted pretty good, and as I was eating it I realized that a good chicken salad sandwich might be as good as life gets.

The chicken salad sandwich seemed to be better and more valuable than anything I'd contributed to the world, and it was truer and more reliable than any person I'd ever met. For a man to live with such low expectations was very sad to me.