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On Charlie Kirk: You Can't Pick and Choose Your Martyr

By Abbigale Kernya for The 44 North

Managing Editor


Charlie Kirk speaking into a microphone
Charlie Kirk speaking into a microphone
"What began as a goal to further the reach of conservative ideology on college campuses evolved into a right-wing pipeline that grounded itself in exploiting marginalized communities and inciting violence against anyone who dared to call out the deplorable white supremacist behaviour."

On September 10th, 2025, American Conservative podcaster Charlie Kirk was fatally shot at Utah Valley University on the first stop of his “Prove Me Wrong” campus tour. Kirk, who made his career founding Turning Point USA and debating college students on campus about controversial topics like abortion, same-sex marriage, transgender existence, and the right to bear arms, has left behind a legacy that continues to polarize and divide. 

 

Kirk’s final words that afternoon perhaps speak most of all to his work, where he riled up the MAGA crowd in attendance—fearmongering about transgender gang violence—moments before he was fatally shot by a rifle 200 yards away. The suspect charged is 22-year-old Tyler Robinson, whose motives remain unknown at the time of writing, despite republican claims his actions were a blatant attack from the left. 

 

It is without question that no matter Kirk’s controversial and bigoted stance, nobody ‘deserves’ to die by gun violence. This remains true, even after Kirk plainly stated in 2023 that he supported civilian casualties to protect and uphold the Second Amendment right to bear arms. The outcry following his assassination is as polarizing as it is frightening. Far right MAGA leaders are calling on violence towards the left (or, their “political opponents”) and conspiracy theories are headlining mainstream media, stating that this shooting was somehow a result of transgender violence—the same “violence” Kirk conspiratized seconds before the fatal shot. 

 

And yet, on the same day Kirk was shot and killed on campus, an elementary school in Illinois was attacked by a lone gunman, marking the 146th American school shooting in 2025, as Kirk became the same “civilian casualty” he supported.

 

Kirk’s platform was built on oppression and harm to anyone who wasn’t a straight, white, Christian, middle-class American cis-male. It can be hard to feel empathy for someone who would not give you the same courtesy. Empathy, which, in Kirk’s own words, was seen as a made-up emotion.

 

Right-wing extremism has been rising steadily in America, bleeding the harmful rhetoric mainstreamed by people like Kirk into nearly every crevice of the West. When the news broke that Kirk had succumbed to his fatal shot, the response heard everywhere from the internet to sports venues was shocking, to say the least. 

 

This is not to say that Kirk deserved what he got—nobody, no matter which side of the political line they stand on, deserves to be murdered in broad daylight. Nobody deserves to witness bloodshed, and in breaking down the hypocrisies of republican outcry, it is not a pro-firearm message. Rather, it’s one that aims to draw light toward the mass mourning of a white supremacist podcaster who made a career demonizing marginalized communities under the guise of “free speech” and the right to have your own opinion.

 

The irony of this whole situation is hidden under the calls for violence and continued “us vs. them” rhetoric, steeped in racist comparisons between Kirk and the murder of George Floyd, to further blame the left for his assassination. However, the argument that one must feel sorry for Kirk is somewhat missing the mark in this conversation. Especially given that Kirk himself advocated for public executions, saying they should be televised to children and sponsored by major corporations like Coca-Cola. It comes as somewhat ironic, then, that the conversation around his death is spiralling into that of a memorialized martyr who died for his own opinion, not one that aims to look at the broader picture of the violence he made a career out of. 

 

Kirk’s advocacy for the right to one’s own “opinion” is a trapdoor that invites unsuspecting viewers through the guise of free speech into the chasm of extremist ideology. As a reminder, an opinion is whether or not you like summer over winter, or what TV show deserved an Emmy Award, or how you like your eggs cooked. An opinion is not whether or not you believe the Jim Crow laws were a good thing for the Black community, or that women aren’t capable of holding equal careers to men, or that transgender people are dangerous, bloodthirsty criminals. Charlie Kirk did not die for his opinion. He held no ‘opinions’ that were not factually incorrect or spewed in the pursuit of a divided country, fueled by hatred and fear. 

 

His “Prove me Wrong” tour would be the final act in his legacy of rage-baiting college students into falling for the ultra-right-wing pipeline, spinning every disadvantage young people face into a calling card for bigotry and white-supremacy. It is extremely telling how school shootings and the rise of hate speech in North America have become so normalized that they’ve become desensitized to mainstream media. On the afternoon of Charlie Kirk’s shooting, when a man armed with a semi-automatic weapon opened fire in an elementary school in Illinois, the narrative instead became focused on protecting the legacy of someone who didn’t believe in equal rights based on “freedom of expression” rather than the epidemic of gun violence that is plaguing America.

 

The truth is, if people were truly outraged that this horrific act of gun violence cost Kirk his life, a conversation of change would spark. Instead, conversations around further demonizing left-leaning voters and the trans community have infiltrated online forums. Additionally, we’ve seen countless examples where anyone speaking out against the hypocrisy of Kirk’s shooting is facing harassment and, in increasingly frequent cases, being fired from their employment after speaking against Charlie Kirk's “opinions.”

 

How have we strayed so far from the plot that merely bringing attention to the hypocrisy and somewhat ironic nature of September 12th is an act of war against the right-wing? To say that you don’t support what happened to Charlie Kirk, but Charlie Kirk (by his own words) supported what happened to him, has become controversial—as if his platform was built around not only protecting the Second Amendment, but also advocating for looser gun restrictions. 

 

How can one mourn Charlie Kirk and ignore the victims of his rhetoric?

 

What began as a goal to further the reach of conservative ideology on college campuses evolved into a right-wing pipeline that grounded itself in exploiting marginalized communities and inciting violence against anyone who dared to call out the deplorable white supremacist behaviour. 

 

To truly mourn Charlie Kirk must mean you mourn all victims of gun violence. 

 

To mourn him as a father, as a husband, is to also mourn the innocent families ripped apart by ICE raids.

 

To mourn him as a political activist for free speech is to also mourn the journalists murdered in Gaza who died documenting a genocide. 

 

To mourn Charlie Kirk is to mourn victims of violence perpetuated with hands cradling guns and microphones. 

 

To mourn him is to mourn trans people and childbearing folks who have died due to lack of access to gender affirming care and abortion resources.

 

You cannot pick and choose your martyr. 


Short Story: Understanding the Consequences of Police in Schools

Updated: 19 hours ago

by Mikaela Brewer

A police officer in tactical gear walking through the front door of a building
A police officer in tactical gear walking through the front door of a building

The echinacea were still alive when the first bell of the school year rang. They’re also called coneflowers, and this is how my mother ensured we shared a name—that I carried her with me safely. Her name is Echina, mine is Connie. I didn’t understand, at first, why we didn’t have the same name. I both knew and didn’t in 2018, when the Toronto District School Board trustees voted to remove police officers stationed in their schools. But I see now, in September 2026, as I begin my senior year of high school. I was born in this country. My mother wasn’t. 


The last time we drove back from Mexico, during the summer of 2025, we’d talked about our fears surrounding the upcoming American and Canadian elections. Mid-topic, we passed a strip of coneflowers and mom, as always, adored an opportunity to talk about the flowers she so admired. She loved them so much that she gifted some to my high school, now rimmed in magenta, white, and yellow. 


“You know, echinacea are native to North America. They’re tough and sturdy and colourful. Resilient—surviving full sun, bad soil, and drought. They help the bees and butterflies, feed the birds, and boost our immunity. They even self-seed non-invasively. Do you know what I’m saying—”


“I know what you’re trying to say.”


“What does that mean?”


“It means you make them sound like a perfect flower. Maybe they are. But we’re not perfect. And flowers can be ripped from the soil by their roots, no matter how hearty they are. That’s what Trump’s going to do. And it can surely happen in Canada, too.” 


Mom’s bony, ringed fingers slid down the steering wheel to eight and four. She took a loud breath that slumped her shoulders. “You don’t know what I’m saying because you didn’t let me finish.”


I regret it now, but at that moment, I shook my head and put my headphones in. She was right—I didn’t know what she wanted to say.


And here I am, waiting in a long line of students entering the school. Doorways doubled by scanners, tripled by police officers, and quadrupled by cameras. I remember my mother’s words, but I don’t yet know how to enact them. I’m terrified.


When I was nine, police roamed my elementary school grounds. But more than the coldness of the cops, I remember Mandy. Mandy with freckles, dimples, warm brown skin slightly darker than mine, and polished copper eyes. One of the first English words I could spell was penny, because I’d met Mandy in kindergarten and been in love with him since. I fight to remember him this way: Mandy, who smelled of his grandfather’s tobacco pipe when he kissed my cheek inside a dead tree trunk during recess.


But he was a troublemaker, always making things when we were supposed to be quiet and listening. A delinquent. A thief. His every move was watched, surveilled, and reprimanded in the halls. Detention for backtalk became suspension, and soon, arrests. So many frightening phone calls with the Canada Border Services Agency. A model of the school-to-prison pipeline. And it all started, from what I can remember, when he borrowed Jenny Barton’s glue stick and scissors without asking her. “What are you going to do with those?” they’d asked, fearfully. I know it started before that. Start isn’t the right word. What was cut up and flimsy as construction paper, to begin with, was his trust in adults. And I wasn’t enough to glue something so hurt back together—at least not faster than it shredded. 


Mandy’s in prison now, so I hear. Just shy of nineteen. I haven’t spoken to him since he was fourteen and I was thirteen. He disappeared from my life. And out of manufactured fear, I let him. 


I know peers, parents, and teachers who protested police in schools. I have friends who stopped coming to school because their parents and guardians are afraid of being reported to immigration officials, even though mom said the Education Act guarantees them an education regardless of status. But Mandy needed support. Not the police.


About midway through the lineup to enter the school, this old heartbreak snapped into panic. As nonchalantly as I could manage, I slipped out of line behind a portable and again behind the echinacea bushes. How else could I protect my mom? I put my headphones in and played two poems by Celia Martínez with my arms hugging my knees. I couldn’t stop my tears and heaved the still-humid air silently. 


[A moment to pause with Connie & watch/listen to Celia’s brilliant poems, linked here & here].

I slowly calmed, listening to Celia’s words. As I fought to figure out what to do next, vehicle headlights lit up my hiding spot magenta. There was a catwalk to a subdivision next to me, but these lights were too bright and close to be coming from the road. I sank further into the bushes, so afraid that it was some form of authority figure looking for me. But nobody would’ve known I was missing yet. It was only 7:53 and classes didn’t start until 8:15. 


A loud engine growl startled me, but it was turning off. A kickstand scraped the fence, thick-heeled boots hit the pavement, and headlights clicked off. 


It took my eyes a moment to adjust, finding focus on a yellow floral dress hugged by a red leather jacket. My mom was crouching in front of me. She smelled like fruit. 


I smeared my glittery white eyeshadow across my face trying to wipe tears away. “How did you know I was here?” I murmured, nearly incoherently.


Echina smiled and almost laughed as she sat down cross-legged beside me, out of view. “Your brothers and sisters hid here too.”


“But how did you know I’d be here today?”


“Moms know a lot of things. I had a feeling.”


“So you know why I didn’t go in.”


“I do. And I understand.” She took my hands in hers.


I swallowed, clearing my throat. “I know what you meant last summer. About coneflowers. About us.”


“Tell me.”


“It’s not about perfection. It’s about believing in ourselves. In our love and hope and joy.”


“Yes, it is. And so much more.”


I nodded, but she could tell I was waiting for her to expand on the ‘much more.’”


“There’s a story that I used to tell your father before he died. I haven’t told it since, but you need it now.” She shifted to face me. “There was once an echinacea flower who—”


“Mom, do you have any stories not about echinacea?” My face cracked a wet smile. 


Echina smirked. “Yes, but they’re not as good. Don’t interrupt.” She paused to paint a fresh layer of red lipstick, put the tube in her bra, and clapped her hands together softly. “So, there was once an echinacea flower who thought she couldn’t support the roots of the flowers around her unless she was completely filled—brimming with nourishment (this tale is inspired by the wonderful work of Christabel Mintah-Galloway, RN, BSN). She thought that she couldn’t give unless she was full. Gradually, the flowers around her began to die. And then, so did she. What mistake do you think she made?”


“We’re never fully or perfectly nourished. So she never helped.”


“Precisely.” Mom squeezed my hands and kissed them. 


“But I don’t understand. I do help.”


“You do. You always help me. But I tell you this little tale to say: almost always, even when we feel most alone and hopeless, there’s something we can do—especially something we can give. And we must keep giving and gifting so that others can do the same for us. We can’t sever that connection. All relationships are tended most lovingly this way; it’s how we keep making in every sense of the word—change, progress, love, art, each other, and the list continues.”


“But I’m so afraid to walk into that school now, mom. With all the police and surveillance. Why is it always us who have to give. So many people only extract. Even my school friends.”


“I know. I know, my love.” Mom hugged me. As she stroked my hair, she asked, “Is there someone who gave to you, who you once shared roots with—made with, maybe—who you could give back to today?”


“Aside from you?”


“Mhm.” She smiled appreciatively. 


It only took a moment to figure out who she was trying to get me to remember. And it was with his memory that I eventually walked into the school for my last first day.


***


That afternoon, I sat inside what felt like a particle board booth for standardized test-taking. There was a grey landline phone on the wall beside me, its coil nearly reaching the floor. This room of the county jail smelled of sweat, cheap coffee, and old paper. I looked down, picking at my purple nail polish. I don’t know what prompted me to look up, but when I did, I didn’t startle. I didn’t know how long he’d been sitting across from me, watching from the other side of the glass, with those same eyes. 


I stared back, my brow creasing involuntarily to mirror his. It’d been long enough for both of us to notice change, but not long enough to not recognize each other. He was thin, but stronger, and with black facial hair that suited him. 


Mandy picked up the phone on his side but my hand went to the glass, as if my palm could push through it to reach his cheek. Keeping the phone to his ear, his head sunk, as if in shame. Afraid he’d leave I quickly picked up the phone. 


“Mandy. Don’t go.”


He looked up. His eyes were kind, but it almost looked uncomfortable for them to soften. As if softness was the only muscle he hadn’t trained since I last saw him, chiselled now in more ways than one. He started to speak but stopped and pressed chapped lips together. 


“It’s me. C—”


“Connie.”


I nodded, unsure why I thought he wouldn’t remember.


“Thought I’d never see you again.” His voice was like gravel. 


I smiled and nodded. 


“Why did you come?” There was a sternness now. 


I took a deep breath and looked down for a moment to gather myself. He thought I was patronizing him.


“If it takes that long to say I—”


“No, wait.” I snapped my head up. “My mom told me a story. And I wanted to tell you about it.” 


“You want to tell me a story?”


“It’s about us. About what we can make.”


“Us?” There was a slight momentum in Mandy’s voice that gripped my heart. The wit that once made much of what he said sound like a wink. I’d missed it so much. 


“Don’t you want to hear it?” 


“Well, what are we going to make?”


“I don’t know yet.”


“Then how are we going to make it?”


“Together.” 


He grinned, and I couldn’t help but beam back. 


We truly hadn’t said much of substance. I didn’t yet know why he was here, nor how we could make anything, let alone make anything happen or change in our corner of the world. He didn’t yet know what I’d been doing for five years. But a shared fight within the two of us found its reflection. 


Mandy kept smiling. It was a disarming, determined smile, with an undercurrent that I recognized. My cheeks warmed, realizing my hand was still on the glass. I was about to move it when he reached up and pressed his palm to mine. The sweat from our palms ran down the pane like tears.

Do Not Forget: A Short Story About Indigenous Mental Health Care

by Mikaela Brewer ​for The 44 North

A person with a long, dark braid, wearing a red long-sleeved t-shirt that reads, “NO MORE STOLEN RELATIVES” on the back
A person with a long, dark braid, wearing a red long-sleeved t-shirt that reads, “NO MORE STOLEN RELATIVES” on the back
"Canada came here with no rivers, mountains, lakes, or forests. Yet they negotiate with us with the very things they stole from us. And yet society says we get a hand out. Rise people. [...] Canada has nothing to negotiate with. It was all stolen from us.”

—Isaac Murdoch, via Instagram  

 

Author’s note: this short story, particularly the character of Dr. Waubun, was written with the incredible guideposts from Chapter 8 of Decolonizing Therapy. If you are a care provider working with Indigenous Peoples or any People of the Global Majority (PoGM), please consider reading this book.


Meg wasn’t sure what words to use when Dr. Waubun asked her if she wanted to share what happened three years ago. She was quiet, gazing out of the therapy office window cracked open a couple inches under red blinds. It looked out into a sample of forest, or, rather, the last piece of one if the land were a pie tray (as the developers believed). Late afternoon was blending with evening, the trees were bare under a fog duvet, and even though this bit of forest was so close by, the air coming in the window smelled of exhaust and cigarettes. Meg decided it was a terrible time for therapy—so far from lunch and so close to dinner. Her stomach growled.

 

Dr. Waubun smiled, and reached behind her into a desk drawer for a bar that couldn’t decide if it was granola or trail mix. The crystals of her turquoise earrings clinked together in her long charcoal hair, like someone walking through a beaded curtain. As she offered the bar to Meg, she asked, “Is Meg short for Megis?”

 

Meg turned her head from the window. One plank on the bridge of trust. “Yeah, it is.”

 

“Perhaps we can start there?” Dr. Waubun wasn’t like other therapists. Meg could tell that much. 

 

“But that was before I was born. Seventeen years ago.”

 

“That’s okay. Noodin and Iggy died five years ago. But you’ve known him much longer. Processing grief expands well beyond one moment.”

 

Meg looked out the window again. The wind was picking up. He was here. 

 

“He’s here. With you.” Dr. Waubun spoke softly. 

 

Meg took a deep breath. “I just miss him. The way he used to call me Shelly instead of Meg or even Megis. I know my name means shell in English, but he used Shelly to poke fun at my Macklemore t-shirt or pop culture things. And Iggy was just the smallest, softest maltese. She was so fluffy— more than any other maltese I’ve ever seen. When I was little, Noodin used to tell me it was because she wanted to be as brown as possible. I loved her brownness.” Meg nearly choked across her last word. The tears began to fall. “I know that Indigenous people are ten times more likely to be shot and killed by police in Canada. But Noodin’s death feels worse. And he wasn’t my father or anything. Iggy was a dog. Everyone at school is annoyed that I haven’t moved on or whatever. I can feel that I make them sad—my friends, teachers, and family.”

 

“It’s not your fault, Meg. And that’s not fair of them.” 

 

“But don’t you see? I wish I could move on. Meds and diagnosis don’t help. I’m distracted, sleepy, irritable, numb, anxious, and impulsive. I have terrible nightmares. The guilt and shame are so heavy. And I’m here because I need help to make it stop. I’m here because I can’t do it the way everyone else can.”“No. You’re not.” There was a subtle fringe of rage in Dr. Waubun’s reply, but not directed at Meg. 

 

Meg could sense this. “What do you mean?”

 

Dr. Waubun held out open palms, and signaled for Meg to place her hands in them. When Meg did this, Dr. Waubun began speaking gently and kindly. 

 

“Meg. You do not have to move on. You do not have to bury your anger, rage, and grief to make other people feel more comfortable. Noodin, your beloved friend and elder, shared an apartment with a young man in possession of cocaine. When the police came, Noodin’s roomate wasn’t there, and he was afraid. As they violently kicked down the front door, Noodin jumped from the window. Iggy ran, but they shot her, triggered by her movement once inside the apartment.” Dr. Waubun paused, clearly recalling something before beginning again, “Samah Jabr, the chair of the mental health unit at the Palestinian Ministry of Health, says, “There is no ‘post’ because the trauma is repetitive and ongoing and continuous. I think we need to be authentic about our experiences and not to try to impose on ourselves experiences that are not ours.” The past is the present for us. We’re both here to not let anyone disenfranchise our grief. You mustn’t forget.”

 

Dr. Waubun was smoothing her thumbs over Meg’s hands, filling the space between them with an energy of care. She slowly let go and sat back, taking a sip of tea. 

 

Meg didn’t know what to say. She’d never heard someone speak of Noodin’s and Iggy’s deaths this way—as if the fear that stifled Noodin from opening the door wasn’t his own fault. Dr. Waubun had offered space for Meg even though she already knew the core details of what happened. She also knew on a spiritual, ancestral, emotional, and political level. It felt as if a key had unlocked something in Meg that she didn’t know existed inside her, let alone the shape of it. 

 

“I’m sorry, Meg. I hope that wasn’t too much or too forward.”

 

“No, not at all. It was helpful. Being in this room with you doesn’t feel like it usually does—like there’s actually five walls instead of four. Many of my other therapists have felt like blank white walls. Not that they were evil or anything. I think they meant well. Even wanted to help.” Meg laughed briefly. “It’s strange how much of a difference the walls make. The olive, copper, and blue are refreshing.”

 

“I understand.” Dr. Waubun smiled, and the wrinkles around her eyes and cheeks moved like little eddies. “Could I ask you something?”

 

Meg nodded, fiddling with the elastic at the end of her long braid. 

 

“Would you share your perspective or definition of grief and rage?” 

 

Meg blinked as if the ancestors inside her hadn’t heard these words in centuries. “I, uh, don’t know. Since we moved to the city we don’t even talk about the emotions we could name while feeling them, let alone grief and rage.” Meg paused to think, remembering a phrase Dr. Waubun used a few moments ago. “What did you mean when you said “disenfranchised grief?”

 

“Ah, yes. It’s a phrase I’m learning, too. There’s a great book called Decolonizing Therapy, by Dr. Jennifer Mullan. I have it here, on my desk. Perhaps we could speak about some of it together. What do you think?”

 

Meg nodded with a mild enthusiasm that made Dr. Waubun sit up in her seat. 

 

“Wonderful. The first thing I wanted to share with you is Dr. Mullan’s definition of disenfranchised grief: “Grief that people experience when they incur a loss that is not or cannot be openly acknowledged, socially sanctioned, or publicly mourned.” How does that resonate with you?”

 

Meg thought for a moment. “I’ve always felt that I was only allowed to be sad if an immediate family member died, or someone in the military or on Remembrance Day, or a natural disaster. But I feel so much when I think about anything. Losing Noodin and Iggy didn’t fit into those buckets.”

 

“Yes. And, they’re connected to and represent a much larger cultural grief, don’t you think?”

 

“Yeah, that’s exactly it. Violence to our land, language, songs, cermeonies, dances; my family’s trauma; our ancestors’ trauma; abuse, poverty.” Meg’s voice cracked and rose in volume with each word.

 

“Mhm. Would you like to say more about what you’re feeling?”

 

“Fire. Like I want to burn all the labels people forced upon me.” 

“Which labels?” Dr. Waubun remained gentle, but met Meg’s heartspace energy where it was blooming. 

 

“Defiant. Dominant. Rebellious. Oppositional. Uncontrollable. Resistant. Unmanageable.” Meg counted these on her fingers, snapping each finger open from a tightly closed fist. “It’s like these are labels reserved for ignorant people. Pathological people.” Her eyes welled up with each word.

 

“I know. And that’s not true. Do you believe me?”

 

“Maybe. Starting to.” 

 

Dr. Waubun nodded and paused a moment before speaking. “Dr. Mullan says that there is something called a Rage-Grief axis, and that “one side needs a release—physiologically and emotionally—and the other requires the space to rest and grieve. To be with the difficult emotions, rather than display them.” She also says, “We relive what is unfinished through our disguises”” 

 

“This makes so much sense to me.” Meg said through her tears. 

 

“Me too.” Dr. Waubun smiled. “And we can schedule many sessions with as much space as you need to process this. Perhaps even with any rituals, ceremony, energy work, or spiritual work that are part of your healing process. Do you have a relationship with these that you’d like to incorporate together?”

 

“Not right now, but I want to try to learn more about what my ancestors practiced.” 

 

“Wonderful. We can make that a part of our work. Would you like to keep working together?”

 

Meg laughed a little. “Goodness. Yes please.” She wiped her tears with the back of her sleeve.

 

Dr. Waubun laughed too and nodded. 

 

But Meg’s face changed, suddenly. “I just don’t know how many sessions I can afford.”  

 

“Oh, I almost forgot to tell you.Through our donations program you had an anonymous donor for at least a few sessions. Specifically for you, too.” Dr. Waubun beamed. 

 

“What?” Meg was confused. She hadn’t told anyone she was doing this. 

 

Dr. Waubun grinned and nodded.

 

•••

 

As Meg walked out of the building fifteen minutes later, she saw an orange pick up parked by the curb, on the opposite side of the parking lot. It couldn’t be. 

 

She wandered over, slowly, to find a young man, no more than eighteen, asleep in the front seat with his arms crossed. His mustard coloured toque was pulled over his eyes and long lashes—that she knew were there—and he was using a plum purple flannel as a blanket. Meg’s heart leapt and carried her fist with it to knock loudly on the window. The man woke with a start. 

 

Jack. Noodin’s Jack, who she hadn’t seen in five years but recognized instantly. They’d been childhood friends until his family moved to Michigan after Noodin’s death.

 

As he clambered out of the car, disoriented, Meg fit herself into his arms. Startled, he fell backwards onto front seat and elbowed the car horn. It echoed through the trees on the other side of the truck, sending a group of crows in a flurry of feathers and cawing. 

 

“Oh shit!” They said in unison, laughing. It wasn’t unusual for the two of them to be making a ruckus. 

 

Jack got his footing and stabilized himself by gripping Meg’s shoulders. He looked at her for a moment, scooped her into a hug, and kissed the top of her head.

 

“Why are you here?” She asked with a mix of joy and accusation.

 

“Well, let’s just say I’m sorry I haven’t been.”

 

“Why? To both parts of that sentence?”

 

“My mom couldn’t come back here. Even though they were divorced it shredded her heart. And I was only twelve. I wanted to visit as soon as I could drive myself but I was afraid. And it all still hurts. I thought my grief might add to yours. I know how close you were with my dad.” 

 

Meg shook her head and started to interject but Jack continued.

 

“You don’t have to say anything. I know we have to work through it together. The pain feels so big because it is bigger than both of us.” He smoothed the collar of her shirt. “Remember, right before I left, you dared me to kiss you in the powder room as a ‘pact’ not to ever have a girlfriend?” 

 

“Oh my. Why do you remember that?” Meg looked down and blushed. 

 

“Because I should have done it.” He titled her chin up. 

 

“We were twelve, Jack.” 

 

“Yeah, well, I don’t think love has an age.” He laughed. 

 

“Love huh? Hm. Well we don’t have a powder room now.”

 

“No, but I’ve got a shitty car with doors cancelled out by untinted windows?”

 

They both full-body laughed until Meg remembered where she was. “Wait. How did you know to find me here?”

 

“Uh…” Jack couldn’t come up with a lie quick enough. 

 

“It was you, wasn’t it? You paid? Why?”

 

“Honestly?”

 

“Honestly.”

 

“Because I saw that funny meme about the ex who’s supposed to pay for your therapy when your credit card declines.” 

 

How he maintained a serious face Meg didn’t know. “What the fuck, Jack?” She was struggling to be serious now. 

 

“Okay. Your mom called to check in on me, so I asked about you, and well, the rest is history. I don’t have a lot of savings yet. My mom helped.” 

 

Meg shook her head, smiling, and as she was starting to reply he kissed her. This was absurd, she knew. Abrupt. But then something occurred to her. This wasn’t about the cute crush they’d had on each other since forever. Along with the heaviness of grief inside them, there was a whole lot of love. Perhaps, if that pink robot dude from Marvel was right in asking, “What is grief if not love persevering?” then maybe people have to choose how it perseveres. Maybe this kind of love builds up too, mimicking a heavy, painful ball in the chest if it’s not released—rewoven and reshaped—upon others in a way that honours why it’s there in the first place. Joy is fighting the fight too. Meg kissed him back.

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