Coroner

 I called the coroner today. Four and a half months ago they said it would take two or three months for his bloodwork to come back from the state lab and confirm the expected toxicology. I hadn't heard from them. It took me weeks to gather the courage or strength or whatever it was I had today that I didn't have dozens of other times I told myself I'd call.  

The report from the lab was on file, but in a too-busy office it took my call to prompt the completion of the autopsy report. A young compassionate voice called me back to tell me what they had found. No surprises. Lots of big words: Intoxication by  . . .  lots of syllables I can't remember, four drugs I think. 

Now I'm watching the mail for the document that will give it to me in writing. Actually, I'm watching the mail for two documents.

The honorary diploma that marks Ryan's accomplishment in high school is coming too. Honorary because he didn't complete the last required half credit in English. If only they'd counted the hundreds of books he read one after another before video games became the means by which he made the days go by or the creativity in the stories he wrote before he'd learned to leave spaces between his words, when his own unique spelling was enough and ideas flowed into notebooks.  

It is kind of the school to send it. 

So I watch the mail for his high school diploma and for the report that explains how he died, that officially names what happened: suicide. 

These will be among the last tangible bits of proof that Ryan was here. The last official business of his life. The last times he is seen by anyone except those of us who loved him most. 

As we near the end of five months in After, the last remaining tasks run out. Soon all that will be left to do is to remember.