Searching for Andrew

He was the first appointment of the day. Jenna slipped her phone into her back pocket before checking her tablet to confirm his name as he sat down.

“Hello, Mr. Thompson?”

The man looked up from his seat, his face worn with grief. He was young, his eyes distant, carrying shopping bags and clutching a manila envelope.

Taking his silence as acknowledgment, Jenna continued softly, “Hello, sir. My name’s Jenna. We’ll be over here.”

Guiding Mr. Thompson to his seat opposite hers at the computer, Jenna noticed he stood beside it, hesitant.

“What can I do for you today?”

Mr. Thompson spoke with measured sadness, “Well,” he began, “My son, he passed away. Last Monday. I need to cancel his account. I have his death certificate.”

He held out the manila envelope.

Jenna’s heart sank. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said genuinely, hoping her words offered solace. “What was the phone number for the account?”

Mr. Thompson retrieved his phone and navigated to his son’s contact, his movements slow and deliberate. Reading aloud the number, he paused, reflecting on the reality he now faced.

Jenna entered it into her computer, pulling up Andrew Thompson’s account.

“I’ll just need to take a quick look at that death certificate, sir,” Jenna said, her voice gentle and careful.

Mr. Thompson wordlessly placed the death certificate on the table. Jenna verified the information, feeling the weight of the moment.

“Do you want to transfer these services to another location, sir?”

Mr. Thompson shook his head. “Just cancel,” he murmured, his thoughts already occupied with cleaning out his son’s apartment.

Jenna nodded solemnly and proceeded to cancel Andrew’s account.

“Okay, sir,” she said, indicating the items in his plastic bags. “You can go ahead and put that modem into the bin there next to you,” gesturing toward the Return Bin for old electronics.

Mr. Thompson placed Andrew’s old modem into the bin, his movements steady but tinged with sorrow.

“Will you take this too?” he asked, holding up an ethernet cable, his expression distant.

“Of course, sir. Go ahead and put that in the bin as well,” Jenna replied softly, acknowledging each item with reverence.

“What about this?” Mr. Thompson asked, showing her a cell phone with a cracked screen and a Pokeman case.

“Yes, sir. We’ll take that as well,” Jenna assured him.

Mr. Thompson then revealed something unexpected—a dried-up umbilical cord. Jenna hesitated, her heart aching for the man’s loss.

“Will you take this too?” Mr. Thompson asked quietly.

Jenna blinked back tears, her voice gentle. “Yes, sir,” she managed. “You can put that into the bin.”

Mr. Thompson complied silently, then retrieved a small, gray urn.

Removing the lid, he showed Jenna its contents—ashes, remnants of a life now gone.

“Will you take this too?” he asked, tears now evident on his exhausted face.

Jenna nodded, her voice barely a whisper. “Yes, sir. You can leave that here too.”

Mr. Thompson nodded slightly, his hands trembling as he poured the ashes into the bin, a cloud of gray dust rising silently.

Showing Jenna the empty urn, Mr. Thompson waited for her nod before placing it gently into the bin atop the ashes. He closed the lid and then stood before her.

“Will that be all, sir?” Jenna asked softly, her own emotions raw.

Mr. Thompson nodded silently, his grief palpable.

Jenna felt heavy, hollow, and deeply moved. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice barely audible as Mr. Thompson turned and walked out the door.

Jenna watched Mr. Thompson walk away, his shoulders slightly slumped under the weight of sorrow. The door closed softly behind him, leaving a lingering sense of loss in the quiet office.

She took a moment to compose herself, wiping away a stray tear. She wanted to leave work, go home, and hug her daughter, but the day was still young.