i mourned you

before even knowing you

were dead. i talked with myself

in the past tense

for hours

about you. i grieved

the fact that i know you

hated me even in

your very last breath. i

cried and cried and cried and

i turned my music up loud

to drown out the thoughts--

my brother is dead, my

brother is dead, my brother

is dead; a mindless loop,

a quiet repetition

that opened a yawning

cavity inside me

at the thought of going on

while you couldn't. while

you weren't.

i woke up this morning

to find you were

alive--had made it back home

in the dead of night.

i see you come down the hall

in your baggy clothes

with your messy hair

and dark undereyes,

and while i know you're alive,

my only thought is that you

aren't. that i already mourned you,

that i already came to terms with

the fact that you hated me to your dying breath,

with the fact that i would

never hear you again

and never have the opportunity to

see your smug smile once more. the

thing is--i still don't believe i have

those things. you still hate me.

you say you always will.

you don't smile at me--haven't for

years. i've been mourning you all that

time, but last night i truly

thought you were dead. that

was a different kind of grief.

still, when i look at you,

i just see a ghost. i don't know how

to stop mourning your death. i

don't know how to not think to

myself

my brother is dead, my brother is

dead, my brother is dead.

i.

i wish i felt like

i have a place in your life--

that you want me around and

that i'm not just someone

who's just there,

or who's good for comfort

and not anything else.

(it hurts how many times)

(this has happened before)

ii.

when she comes around, i close

my door--i put heavy things behind

it and i turn out my light,

and i lie quiet in the green darkness

of my room until she leaves.

she pushes at my door, knocks,

calls my name, and she only

leaves me be when my

uncle comes down the hall and

pulls her from my door.

she wanted to give me flowers and

a book--she doesn't remember

that i'm allergic, though. she doesn't

even remember coming by, the

next day. i hate how much

it makes me want to cry.

iii.

my therapist says it will

take time for me to feel comfortable

with you, and to feel like i

can trust you again. she tells me

to be patient. (i'm trying--it's)

(hard.) when we call, i purposefully

fade into the background

like i can somehow

not exist in the space with you,

as if that could help anything

(i don't know what). i wait

and i wait and i wait

and you tell me it'd just be easier if i

existed. i'm hesitant.

(who knows if that's what made you)

(leave in the first place? i think.)

iv.

it makes me sick to my

stomach to think

of her dying, or getting

alzheimer's--not because

she would be 'lost' or 'gone,'

instead i feel sick at the thought

that soon i'll be the only one

who knows what happened

and what we shared. i don't

want to be the only one.

and even now, as i know she's forgotten

so much, like what books i like

and that i'm allergic to flowers,

and when she's even tried to see me,

i don't feel as trapped in the memories

as i know i will when she

dies or truly forgets me. someone

else has to know--has to know that

it happened and that she was

drunk most of the time, that

she made me pancakes and grilled cheese

and ramen and mac and cheese

because i liked them,

and that she drove us places even

when inebriated. someone

has to know that she

frightened and scared me,

that she made me sad and hurt,

that she hated all kids but she liked

me, that she rarely won monopoly to me

but she always played because it was my favorite,

that i cried for three months

when i heard she never wanted to see

my family again, and that i still

took the dvds of the movies we

had planned to watch, and i took

the m&ms, too, and i ate them,

because i wanted her to think of me

when she couldn't find them.

it took three months before she

did remember me,

and even then, she didn't remember

telling us she never wanted to see us

again. i couldn't understand it for

the longest time, but now i

suppose that when you're that drunk,

you might not remember the things you say or do.

even so, i don't want to be

the only one who knows

that happened. i don't want to be alone in those memories. she's

not there, and i don't know if she

ever was. but i don't want to be left

alone, back here in the past.

v.

i'm told i should try to be honest

with you. it's hard.

i just want to fade into nothingness

when you're around, and i don't

know why, but it's hard not to

do that every time.

how do i make myself want

to exist in a space with you,

where i'm as loud and comfortable

as i am with my other friends? i

don't know, but i feel like it might

hurt you if you find out how i am

with them. i want to be comfortable

with you and trust you again, i

really do, but the desire

to be nothing when you're around

is so overwhelming it hurts to breathe.

there's a memory, buried deep

somewhere. i'm not sure where.

in the memory (as fractured)

(as it is), i've been

left behind in the

dark. i am terrified of the

dark. i won't be caught

dead in the dark. whoever has

left me behind

in this memory

knows that. i know that

they know. and, yet, the

only thing going through

my head in this

memory--aside from the panic

tearing at my skin and the

suffocating (other) feeling that

is swallowing me whole and

has me choking back tears and

holding a hand over my mouth

to keep quiet--are the words from

the person who's left me

behind: "don't be dramatic,

it's just the dark--it's childish and

stupid of you to be

so afraid of this." i have been

left behind as a

lesson, of some sort. i

do not know how long i'm stuck,

alone, in the dark, but i know

i get out, at some point, breathless

and searching for the arms of

the authority who decided

i needed the lesson. their arms

are not welcoming. their arms are not open for me. they ask me,

"now, was that so bad?" and in this

memory, i know that if i say

that, yes, it was that bad, i may get

put back in the dark again.

so i shake my head

in the memory and i

close off my expression and i

separate from myself for who-

knows how long. the memory has

many duplicates, adjusted over

time and different in each but

somehow still the same--the

same fears and hurts and the

same type of words and the

same sort of separation from

myself afterwards. i am still

afraid of the dark.

pull the key from the door,

hold yourself up and take a breath

it's okay, i'm telling myself.

i can't hear your voice any longer,

can't feel the cold at my back

or my feet tangled with the sheets

the world has ended, it's over now.

it's all okay.

i'm starting a new life now,

writing a different story--one you're never in,

one where i'm fine and you've never hurt me--

and a new world has opened up

i hardly think of you anymore

the smell of listerene doesn't catch me at the door,

i can breathe again when i see your name,

and i'm ready to take what's left of me and reclaim it

i'm pulling the key from the door,

standing tall and breathing deep

i'm turning from you and those long halls,

turning from all those memories and all those

lost hopes and dreams, i'm ready

i'm ready, i'm ready, i'm reclaiming that child i once was

and i'm giving her a different story

he’s golden like six pm april evenings

where the sun crests over the hill and

peers between the trees and bathes everything

ethereal and yellow and warm. his hair is

curled and tightly spun and it’s always so, so

messy and it makes me feel a little silly to think

about it. when he turns his head i catch a

glimpse of silver and, man, if my breath

doesn’t catch in my lungs. his eyes are

so pretty in the way that i can’t

remember what color they are, but i just

know that my memory of them saw them as

beautiful—i know in the way that i’d know

my mom’s voice anywhere, in the way i’d know

my best friend’s humor, in the way i’d know if i was

making my chocolate chip cookies right or not.

he’s golden like six pm april evenings and yellow

sundresses and worn yellow linoleum and

he reminds me of the earth like the way the

sun filters through the trees or the way the

fading daylight pierces through the windows and

passes through the ivy and ferns. he’s golden golden

golden and i think that i’ll always associate this

with him.

he’s tousled and messy and so, so, imperfect—

he’s tried so hard, had to work so far, and

he’s come so far, he’s grown so much, he’s

overcome it all, and he’s so, so sweet, and the

way he thinks makes sense. they say he’s weird,

they say he’s odd, but, man, if i don’t feel like

we connect so right. he’s imperfect and

he might be odd but i quite like him this way and

i feel it wouldn’t be the same if he was any

different.

he’s golden, he’s silver, the sight or thought of

him makes the breath in my lungs catch,

he’s so pretty and he’s so beautiful and i wouldn’t

change him for anything, he makes sense to me

and everything clicks and he’s golden golden

golden. he doesn’t like me and i like him and i’ll

never get beyond this point because

it’s just eight short weeks before we part for

good and i couldn’t take it if it all made sense

before it blew up in our faces. but he’s

golden, like six pm april evenings where

the sun comes rushing through the windows and

breaks through the ivy and ferns to bathe

everything in its path warm and yellow and

ethereal. he’s golden. he’s like that

and i’m just a girl, caught in the golden

sunbeams and caught with my mouth

wide open in awe, staring up

at it all bathed warm and yellow and ethereal—he’s

golden, golden, golden.

i hope no one ever makes

him feel like he’s not.

there’s no way to stop it

when it finally comes, when

it finally starts. there’s just the

point where we’re

all alone, and then there’s

this moment where it all changes and

we can’t stop it. we’re headed

downhill, speeding through the crowd and

on the edge of it. you can’t grab the handlebars

and i can’t manage the brakes. i’m free—

free falling. you’re running to catch up.

(is there a point where we meet?)

(does it dislocate a rib

(along the way?)

can we manage something small?

let’s take a break. we’re

at my apartment (it’s not real) (we’re not here at

(all. at best, we sit at a desk together

(and discuss the week’s work.) and i’m

interviewing you. you’re

alone, but you’re as

golden as i remember—tousled and messy

and golden like daylight. silver

glints in your

ears. your eyes are so pretty and i

can’t remember what color

they are. i know they’re pretty,

though, in the way that some people

know that they love their husbands and wives

even after they lose their memories. you’re

startled as i am, but you

don’t say a word. instead, i guide you

inside a place that

somehow fits me in all my

needy glory. you sit and i roll

to sit across from you. the interview

is quick and alright. you’re hired and

you move in the next day, for simplicity’s

sake. i insist that i can

shower and go to the

bathroom myself. i still need

help cleaning, and making meals, and

getting to appointments. you help with those things.

we grow together. and then comes

the hill.

sometimes it’s a literal

hill where i slip or catch a wheel on

some debris and head down,

and other times it’s me

collapsing after

standing and taking the wrong step

forward, or me

reaching for something and

falling, or me not being

able to get out of

bed, again, for the third time that week and it’s

only monday.

we’re always met with fear. i’m

always ready with

shame and

embarrassment. you meet me with an open mind and

an offer.

the reality of it is that

i don’t have this place

and we still just meet

once a week in front

of a desk, sitting side

by side and slowly

inching towards some

sort of friendship.

or, at least, acquaintanceship. i’m

not sure, yet. we

trade information back and forth and

i hold onto each glimpse of

you like a hungry man for scraps

of food.

the reality of it is that

you don’t like me and

i like you. but you don’t like me and

i’ll never find out if i’m

right or if i’m wrong because

we only have eight more weeks

together, and then we

part ways and i’ll

probably never see you

again. because you clean

houses and not people and

as hot as that is, i’m a person who might

need such services but i’d

hate to love it if you were to ever

help me in those ways.

the reality of it is that

you don’t like me and

i like you a lot and

nothing will ever come of this because

i’m afraid and i dislike asking

for help and it’s nothing more than just

a fantasy to think that one day we’d be

put together like this, me and your

sunshine self who’s

worked so hard to get to this

point, and it’s nothing more than

a fantasy to think that there’s

anything more than you not liking

me and me liking you.

i.

i wonder if you still have

the glass—my ‘i love you,’ my

loyalty, my heart, my

friendship—and i wonder

if you remember a thing about

me when you see it.

who knows?

(is it even out? or is it

(in a box somewhere, buried beneath letters and

(notes and clothes and memories and

(dust?) i wonder if you

remember all that i do

about us.

the thing is, i can’t remember

anything current for shit. i can’t remember

what day it is, or what i just said, or what my last thought was—

but i can remember her voice, i can

remember our early texts, i can

remember the hurt and the pain and the

ache ache ache of what we aren’t

anymore—and isn’t that

something?

i remember how you loved me,

but not when my next therapy appointment is.

i remember how she smells,

but not who i’m seeing for the next specialist appointment.

i remember how your laugh sounds,

but not what’s in the fridge.

i remember how she sounds when she cries,

but not what i did last week.

i remember our jokes,

but not how much money is in my wallet.

i remember how she gets angry with me,

but not what my best friend’s smile looks like.

i remember when i lost you,

but not when i last saw all my friends.

i remember the hurt and the pain and the aches and all this awful past,

but not the newest, most important things in my life of today.

when will it all go away? when will

i move on? how do i move

on? is there any way to

move on, or do i just live with this ache

rotting inside of me?

is there any end

at all?

ii.

i heard that things have changed from your husband—that

the birds are on the porch, now, and

not inside. i heard that

the dogs died, and so did many of

the cats. i heard that pete is now

twenty years old, not fifteen. i heard

that there’s only one

guinea hen, now. that you have a new cat.

that you have a cow.

i heard that

time has changed you, that

things have moved on past the point where

my memory captured it all. who

knows if you still have blue-green afternoons in

mid-october? who knows if

you do the taxes at nine am on

a saturday morning under

pink lamplight after breakfast? who knows if

the scraps still go in that pink-brown

trash can, and who knows if the

carpet still smells so bad and grabs your

feet in its hold? who knows if you’ve ripped it out?

who knows if you still have

all the same china, all the same cups, if

the water still tastes like it

washed a cat before it came to be

in your cup? who knows if

everything has changed and moved on

without me, and left me hoping for

someone to find me in the past—who knows

if i’ll be found, looking for you in those blue-green afternoons

or pink-brown mornings, or in the purple

hottub or on the toilet of your bathroom

with a bleeding knee and tears running

down my face, waiting for you to come back; who knows

if i’ll be found, and by

who. who knows? i doubt you do, with your

friend named alcohol. i doubt you will,

with your friend named alcohol. i doubt you

ever did, with your friend named

alcohol. i hate your friend named

alcohol. i hate you.

(i don’t.) (i wish i did.)

someone find me, please,

and take me home—i don’t want to be

here anymore, waiting for her to

pour the peroxide over my bloody knees or

waiting for her to come home and find me in the

mandarins or waiting for her to roll her next move and lose to me in

monopoly or waiting for her to look up at me and

smile. i’m tired of waiting. the past

doesn’t move

forward. she’s not here, and

i don’t know if she

ever was. someone come

find me,

please. i don’t know

the way out. i don’t know how

to get home. someone please

come find me. someone

take me home

please.

i.

i’m poor and they’re all rich. one of them gives me

five hundred dollars for my birthday—“because it’s a milestone.”

what do i do with five hundred dollars?

i don’t remember the way you

cared about me (i remember it not happening), but

what do i do with this? it feels

important and big, like

it should matter. does it

matter to you? do you remember

anything about me? can i even accept this when

i know you don’t care at all about me?

ii.

my mom said that mary was off today—

like she’d been drinking all morning. “but,” i said,

“she seemed normal, to me.” a beat. “i guess

“that says a lot about our relationship, if that’s normal to me.”

my mom and i laughed. the thought

that her being crazy drunk is a normal “mary”

to me—it made me ill.

iii.

i texted you, asked how you

were. you said you were good and asked how

i was. i said i wasn’t

great. you asked why, and i guess i

just wanted to feel like

we were what we used to be (close) (friendly) (talking

(to each other, still), but i explained

how i’m in a wheelchair now, and that

i haven’t been able to walk. the conversation ended after

i answered your question—“are you

“still having the issues?” like. i don’t know what, but it

kind of hurt me when you said it like

that, in the same way that a papercut hurts

when you squeeze it and watch the

blood pool, and then squirt some lemon juice on it—and

i’ve only asked you how you‘re doing

once since then. i don’t want to keep

slicing myself open for the

chance to talk to you, but, man, if

it isn’t tempting. i’m always thinking

about what we used to do,

what we used to say,

the things we used to have,

and the way we used to be, like this will

make you come back to me. like

it will change a thing.

iv.

trying something new to help

with the pain. i feel overstretched, overdone,

like i’m going to collapse with

the weight of everything. i wonder

if this will touch that—if,

in seeking solution to the

physical, i might find

something to give me a hand with these

heavy things.

i miss the certainty of

growing up healthy. i miss knowing

and having plans for my future. i miss having

the certainty in your capabilities required to save up for something like

moving out and becoming independent.

i miss not having to talk about

someone needing to take care

of me for the rest of my life, and having to

ask for help to even just move a cup of water. i miss

not being sick. i miss being okay. i miss the time where i was sick and

needed this help and was still a kid. i miss it i miss it i miss it and

i feel so awful for it, because i know it isn’t

the end of the word, but, man, if i didn’t lose more than just my mobility

when i got sick, if i didn’t lose more than just the average use of my

joints when i was born. i can’t

take it, some days, just how much i lost.

v.

the pain is still the same. it’s not

helping. what else can i do—

can i please just catch a break?

vi.

if you’ve been drunk this whole time and

you forget most of what happens,

will you remember this

and will you remember me and

will you remember us and

should i even bother holding on

to something you’ll probably forget by

tomorrow’s hangover?

vii.

i have her letters and everything i kept from

my time with her—it’s in a box, taped shut or folded over,

i can’t remember. it’s all in there, though. i

sometimes wish i’d thrown it out, but

more often than that i’m proud to say

i’ve forgotten where it is or

that it’s there.

or, at least, that’s what i wish i could write.

i really mean:

i have your letters and everything i kept from

my time with you—it’s in a box, each flap folded

over in a careful manner. it’s all there, every written note

and stamped letter and silly momento. i sometimes wish

i’d thrown it out, but more often than that i hate to say

i’d like to open it up and go through it and

write you a letter, or call you up and ask if

you’d like to have a sleepover or lunch or just go

to the library together. i always know the box and its contents

are there, on top of my dresser and

buried behind forty books and hidden under

other boxes and binders. i still remember the smell of you,

the way your hand feels in mine, the way your

voice sounds, the books and authors you like to read,

the way you like your beets and the way that night feels

at your house, under your covers, bathed in golden light and

reading our books with the cool night air coming

in through the open window from a starry blackened sky, and the

way your table shines with a layer of grease and your kitchen smells of bacon

in the mornings and hamburger grease at night, and the sound of

the evening news in the living room from where i stood in the kitchen, and the way the carpet feels under my toes and the way the plants and birds and walls

smell and feel and look, and the way the dust falls through the air in your

house and the way the afternoon comes through the windows and the trees

with a blue-green tint at four pm on a cool october afternoon, and the

way the trees and ivy yellow and green, and the sound of

the guinea hens, and the sound of cars on the gravel of your

driveway, and the smell of hay and horse shit in the horse pen, and the way you

have me water the plants and feed the birds, and the way the plants along

your driveway are mandarins and not oranges, and the way i can’t

forget a thing about you but you could forget all about me.

that’s what i mean. that’s how it is.

viii.

i want to make my own memories that i can’t seem to forget.

i want to remember forever and ever playing with the kids,

holding the cat, sitting in the dark of my room writing while

everyone else sleeps, getting crushes, helping friends,

making people smile, silly jokes, good music, eating nice

foods. i want to remember the good things, the things that might not hurt me

as much as the thought that you could

not know me at all and not

remember a part of us

while i remember

everything about you.

i.

a swelling sadness

growing deep within my chest

(pulling, pressing, pushing)

seeping into everything i

touch

ii.

i should have expected less

(i should have been hurt by less)

i know it’s not your fault

(it feels like it is, though)

why did you keep

pushing, pressing, pulling?

why did you keep

going, even beyond the initial wound?

iii.

why did the disappointment

curdle in my stomach,

grab me by the throat,

twist the knife in my stomach?

iv.

i tried so hard to

not expect, to not

hurt at the absence,

but i did! my silly heart

aches.

my silly heart—expected

too much, wanted

too much, and it aches—

too much.

(WHY COULDN’T I LET IT GO! WHY CAN’T I LET GO?)

v.

it’s

five days until

my birthday. i want to

rip my heart out, set its beating

aches and wants and wishes aside

for the week. i want to let it go,

i want to stop expecting people

to do what they’ll say and

say what they’ll do and

care enough about the

silly, inconsequential date and i

want to just!! stop feeling so awful

about it all.

vi.

can’t i just have a birthday

and have it be nice?

vii.

why am i so sad about this!

i should have expected this!

i shouldn’t be hurt by this!

(five days)

(five days—)

(can my heart)

(just take a break)

(for five days)

viii.

i’m going to love and enjoy and

cherish deeply each day of

september. i’m going to love and

enjoy and cherish deeply each

day of september. whether i like it or

not, i’m going to love and

enjoy and cherish deeply

each day of september. i have to i have to

i have to! i must to survive,