Life's Harshest Reality

This article is part of the Claritas spring 2024 issue, Home. Read the full print release here.

By: matt pang

“Adam Asilo passed. Funeral Sunday. With love.”

The voicemail ends. A sigh escapes my lips but continues to linger, almost crystalizing in the frigid February air. Without hesitation, I trudge to the corner store on North Broadway and Abbot Street. 

Once inside, I lock eyes with the cashier. No words are exchanged; they are unnecessary. She prepares my “usual”: a large black coffee and a Bic lighter. I lay three dollars on the counter, a ritual repeated for a few years, and then I swiftly exit the store, tucking the lighter into my left breast pocket.

I arrive at the apartment building, yet I can not seem to enter. My feet will not budge as my right hand remains ensconced within my breast pocket, unwilling to seek out my keys. Thus, instead of stepping indoors, I turn the corner and make my way to the outdoor common area adjacent to the parking lot. 

There, I settle into the only black, rusted chair. Beside the lone chair is a matching black lawn table. It is a peculiar piece of furniture. The frame, once shiny aluminum, is now corroded with flakes of paint clinging for dear life to the surface. The tabletop, a sturdy slab of glass, warped and translucent. In its center, a small hole, no wider than four inches, secures an umbrella, presumably for sunny days. 

A few minutes of mindlessly drinking and observing the late afternoon sky pass when a sharp twinge tightens at the base of my neck, creeping its way up to the summit of my skull. Instinctively, my fingers fumble around the depths of my breast pocket  in search of a Marlboro Red and lighter. My fingers shiver, shaking as I battle against the biting Baltimore wind to ignite the much-needed cigarette. 

The sun sinks low on the horizon, casting the world into infinite obscurity. Shame washes over me. I toy with the charred remains between my frostbitten fingers, a testament to my fragility in the face of the relentless, indifferent chill. Each thick, dense billow of smoke builds upon the last, almost constructing a shelter that protects me from the loveless world around me. 

Unexpectedly, a buzz vibrates my upper thigh: a call from Pastor Mark. I decline and leave him in the past where he belongs. I shake my head, leaning for another puff. Each inhalation of smoke bears the burden of guilt, while with every exhale is a sigh of momentary relief. It’s been a while since I've set foot in church. I like to tell others it is because I don’t have a ride, but in reality, it’s something far deeper; a reluctance I refuse to admit. 

Overcome with a desire to reminisce, I retreat to my phone and press play on a recorded call from three years ago with my friend Adam. After roughly seven minutes of passive listening, my right eye spasms anxiously in anticipation of an agonizing piece of the conversation:

“Don’t worry, brother,” the raspy voice assures me.

“I don’t know, bud. I don’t have anyone here,” I reply.

He chuckles, “How’s the saying go? ‘Home is where the heart is?’” He snickers, pauses, then charitably declares, “As long as I’ve got a heart, you’ve got a home.”

Adam died the following morning. He tried to call, but I ignored him. I was at church. 

Emotions, wild and untamed, course through my veins. I propel the phone against the parking lot asphalt. Obscenities escape my lips in a shrieking torrent, a savage release for the turmoil within. My trembling hands struggle to bring the cigarette to my lips for its soothing embrace. Collapsing in the chair, my head crashes against the cold metal of the backrest. Gradually, I surrender to the darkness behind my eyelids and seek refuge from the pitiless world. And as the warm smoke fills my lungs, I’m transported back to a time long past, to days of joy, to a sanctuary untouched by the relentless march of time. 

Back in the summer of ’21, I was consumed by the presence of God, every thought and action imbued with a divine purpose. Each morning, long before the first light breached the horizon, Adam and I would navigate the lovely backroads leading to the Chesapeake Bay. Arriving at the bay's edge, we’d step out onto the distinctly orange sand and admire creation. With each gentle release of my line into the tranquil waters, I felt a connection to something greater than myself, something loving and serene. The sunrise painted the sky in shades of pink and gold, bestowing a heavenly glow upon the world below. And in those quiet moments, surrounded by the beauty of creation, I knew that God was not distant but fully present, permeating every aspect of life, from the sea to the heavens. 

But Adam died, the sun lost its warmth, and my fervor faded. Heaven, once a constant presence in my life, now feels like a distant memory, a place I am no longer welcome. The church, once my haven, now stands as a forsaken retreat, and its pastor admonished me in my darkest hour. 

Shaking off the past, I return to my faithful companion to draw in a deep breath of the soothing smoke. I shut my eyes once more in anticipation of the nicotine’s blessed euphoria, but nothing comes. I take another and another, but still nothing. I deeply inhale out of desperation; sweat drips from my temple, and still no tranquility. At that precise moment, a trickle of blood from the left nostril stains my lips. Dismayed, I twitch in my seat and rest the weight of my ankles on the table, only to be jolted by a sudden crack! The glass tabletop shatters beneath the pressure of my heels. 

Horrid. Before me, the glass fractured into pieces, and the umbrella plummeted on the concrete ground. Inspecting the scene, I discover a few shards caught in the flesh of my heels; blood from the open wounds stains the glass in a macabre hue.

Right as I attempt to distract myself with the dying cigarette, the moonlight shines through the table’s empty frame, illuminating the bloodied glass with an ethereal glow. Drawing closer, it's almost as if these crimson shards hold secrets, fragments of a story waiting to be told. Amid this alluring wreckage, a thought flits through my mind: Could I be restored?

For in the shattered remnants of the glass table, I see a reflection of my fractured soul. 

The moonlight dances through the cracks, illuminating the darkness with its gentle glow, communicating to me that there is perhaps beauty to be found in brokenness.

It’s as though the moonlight reaches out His hand with the promise to make me beautiful; for the first time tonight, I open myself to the possibility of life after Adam. Finding the light like a brother, it appears that maybe for the first time in years, I could feel less alone.

And yet, I cannot accept it; I can’t. In Adam’s death, a piece of me also died. Half of my soul lies in the grave. And the other half: Ruptured. Ruptured is the dwelling of my soul. When love was lost, nothing remained, and no one– not even the Church– came to revive me. I am in ruin. 

Fully collapsed, I raise the umbrella, determined to block the moonlight and its intrusive charity. Enveloped in darkness, I stand on the once-glimmering glass, which now rests in lifeless fragments, soaked in a pool of blood. My persistent quest for solitude from this inhospitable world leads me to ignite yet another cigarette. The profound exhale of smoke rises before my eyes and acts as a shield; it cocoons me from life's harshest reality: Adam is dead. 

[1] Albert Camus, The Stranger (Vintage, 1989).