when we lived with him,

i woke up very early each day.

in the mornings, to pass the time,

since i was afraid of being alone with

him when no one else was awake,

i would read alone in my bed for hours

until someone else woke up, too.

every morning, while it was just him and

i awake in the house, he would watch the news

and eat cornflakes and drink orange juice and

read the newspaper. i was hungry, of course, at this

hour—i was a growing child—but i wouldn’t stir from my bed

except to pick up a book and to

turn a page

and another

and another

and so on, until someone else woke.

when he got up from the table, though, i would hold my breath. he was

three rooms and a hall away, but i could hear him,

somehow. i would hold my breath. if i heard

the clinking of his silverware to his bowl, he was

taking his dishes to the sink. if not, he was headed straight

for the bathroom. either way, he would

inevitably come back down the hall,

flip-flops sounding strangely across

the wooden floor in his slow, steady gait.

i would have slipped my book under my blankets and

turned slightly onto my side by the time he reached the hall,

my movements silent in practiced ease. my eyes would have

been closed not even a second later, my breaths

carefully evened out into those mimicking sleep.

as he moved down the hall towards our room,

the room with my siblings and i, i would clench a hand into

a fist beneath my blankets, along the

spine of my book beside me, and i would focus

on the

sound

of the

whirring

fan

above

our

heads,

even as he came closer.

he would stand at the open doorway to our room and

stand

there

for

m

i

n

u

t

e

s.

i would keep breathing, just the same, just as evenly, just as

methodically as i always did in these moments.

sometimes i still wake up

paralyzed

by the

sound

of the

whirring

fan

above

my

head,

when i eat

this meal, i’m

supposed to be

thankful.

when i eat

this meal, all

i feel is i can’t breathe—i—

i can’t—i can’t breathe, i—

as he sits beside me, i feel

this feeling subside. one

must breathe, after all.

i must, to survive (him).

each bite is

torture. each movement is

calculated, tense,

pent-up energy. but i

have to appear

relaxed. fine. okay. it’s

what i have to do (to)

(survive). he watches me eat.

i feel like i could die, i think, stuffing

down a bite of turkey. i hate it, so much.

it doesn’t even taste awful—just—i—i—

i can’t stand it—i—i can’t—

he makes me take some of the cranberry sauce.

it’s sour. the stuffing eases it, some, but i

have to mask the expression of me about

to throw up from the texture and i

have to swallow this bite hard. i have

to keep it down. he makes me eat

the slimy green beans. there’s

weird stuff on them, making them

too salty. they’re a bit limp. they fall

apart beneath my fork. i shovel them

into my mouth. he watches me eat. once

all this is done, i take a long, long, long

drink of water. i turn to that

buttered roll on my plate, and i

savor each bite. when i ask for another, he

says, “after some more turkey and green”

“beans, maybe some more stuffing, too,”

“and if you’re still hungry, then sure.” i say

nevermind. i have to wait until

everyone else is done eating

to be excused. he

watches

me

sit

there. he’s smiling wide.

there’s a yellow light and

it’s too hot and

very cold, all at once.

i’m frozen in place,

grimacing in pain,

stood to one side and

unable to move.

he stands a few feet away,

deceptive smile in place.

“excited?” he asks, looking

to me. i quickly pull a smile

across my lips.

“sure,” i say. “you know what

“i like.” he doesn’t. he doesn’t.

he doesn’t. but i don’t

dare say otherwise. i move

robotically to the dining

room, sit in my seat

(always beside his)

(always in reach of a punishing)

(hand. a punishing kick.)

i sit in my seat,

sat on my hands. i stare at

the table—think to myself,

i should probably offer to

set the table. i feel like i’m

going to die, sitting here, waiting,

but i don’t get up. i might

break something if i try

to set the table. so i just

wait. back is ramrod straight.

breaths are hardly there. eyes

trained on the moving grain of

the table. at least at my aunt’s,

she begrudgingly makes me

mac and cheese alongside

the traditional thanksgiving dinner.

i hate eating in november, i think. he always

makes me eat the driest turkey

and the slimiest green beans and

the sour cranberry sauce and i can

only have one buttered roll. and i

HATE EATING STUFFING. i could die,

i think, if he makes me eat

one more thing.

he might kill

me if i don’t,

though.

he finally calls me to set the

table. i go into the kitchen,

feeling like every step is one closer

to death. i ask what’s for dinner, so

i know what to grab. “turkey,”

he grins, “and green beans, with stuffing.”

i nod. “your favorite,” he says

with a laugh. i laugh emotionlessly

along with. i grab enough plates

and enough silverware. i lay out the plates

like he instructs, and i place the silverware

just how he likes, except for

at my place, which he allows, only because

he makes fun of me each night for it anyways. i go back into

the kitchen for the potholders. when i

pass by him, my

breath doesn’t come out

on the exhale. i

can’t breathe. something always holds me

back from breathing in his

presence, and i—i—i—

i don’t breathe—i don’t

breathe, i don’t—breathe, i—

i can’t, i can’t, i—i don’t breathe, i—

i grab the potholders and move

away from him. he says something,

laughs. i laugh along, having not heard,

but his tone indicates i should

laugh. so i do. next i get drinks. i

refill his, not breathing as the

water fills his cup. it’s

hard to breathe on my

way to setting his cup down at

his place. when i finish with the

table, i sit at my place,

sat on my hands. back

ramrod straight. eyes on the

moving grain of the

table. breathing hardly

at all.

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.