There’s No One Making Sure Everyone Gets A Fair Share

　　Weezie sits expectantly, hungrily, in front of Trent and I forget again if dogs do or don’t eat pizza.

　　“I don’t know what I’ll do when it’s Weezie’s time,” Trent says. I know he says this because he’s experiencing some of my pain, coupling it with imagined future pain of his own, trying to understand. Plus the not knowing what to say that all of us experience in the face of grief. And I appreciate it, I do. But it’s not Weezie’s time. She is here. Unscathed. Alive. He also has Matt. What do I have?

　　The distribution of loss is inequitable. And I don’t want him not to have Weezie. And I don’t want him not to have Matt. I love my friend, and I want him to have every happiness. So I say this as a realization only. Not as a desire to redistribute loss or to make it more equitable. The distribution of loss is inequitable. That’s just the way it is. That’s just the way the world works. There’s no one handing it out. There’s no one making sure everyone gets a fair share.

　　So many adventures we had. And I loved every one.

　　Had.

　　Past tense.

　　Did Lily know this as her eyes grew heavy? That the adventures were over? Or did she feel the heaviness of sleep as the onset of a satisfying rest, one that would allow her to be fresh for new adventures ahead? Was it exciting or terrifying? Or did she see nothing at all?

Lily and the Octopus, P277
Steven Rowley
ISBN 978-1-5011-2622-2