Oxygen
When Andrei and I were maybe 9, 10, or 11 we had some game that I think involved one of us jumping around on the bed while the other one of us threw things (pillows, most likely) at the bouncer. It’s not so much the game I remember clearly as what we started saying after bouncing for several minutes. Panting, out of breath, we’d exclaim, “I need my oxy.”
It meant we were winded and needed some oxygen. Maybe we’d just been learning about such things in school. I have no idea. 20+ years later, I remember one of us said it after doing some gnarly set at the gym. And we both remembered exactly what it meant.
Andrei’s death is so abstract; it isn’t like Andrei and I were on the phone every day. I hadn’t seen him in a long while. My daily routine is identical to what it was August 4th. But there’s this thick blanket covering me. It’s so hard to breathe sometimes. Everything seems so much harder than before. Everything is heavier.
I need my oxy.