It’s been a long time since I’ve seen the sun. It’s even been a long time since I’ve seen a person. I’ve begun to think I never will again. I stopped counting the years after I got to ten, it seemed silly to keep going when I stopped hoping.

The basement is damp; mold has long since set in, and grass has begun to sprout in the cracked cement. I remember there being a flood a long time ago. The man upstairs had said the flooding had been caused by tsunami. He and his wife scurried across the floor then, shouting to each other about being upstairs.

They’d left me to the cold, sharp sting of water slowly sloshing up my sides, soaking me through. It had been days before the water thinned enough for the man to come down again. I sat, damp and dejected in the corner as he waded into the knee high water. His frown palpable as he rooted through boxes on the other side of the basement. Never once did he look my way. I couldn’t move.

The woman shouted down at him, asking if anything was salvagable.

I heard a dejected sigh as he scanned the unfinished basement. The walls soggy, and the floor covered by murky brown water. He told her no as he ascended the stairs, and her crying could be heard plain as day through the slammed door.

A week later the silence set in. No more shuffling of feet on floor boards. No more dragging of furniture. The dog had stopped barking.

I stayed there, in the corner, sopping wet and ruined, waiting for someone, anyone to come find me.

But they never had come.

And now, I don’t know how long later, I still am here. As I suspect I always will be. My edges are wearing thin. The house is as broken as I know I must look, and nobody is brave enough to press their luck on the rotted boards of the basement steps.

I’m just a memory now to the man and his wife, left behind, but never really forgotten. Haunting their thoughts with the rest of the clutter they couldn’t save.

I’m okay with it, or at least I’ve grown to be. I always thought I’d be shown off somewhere upstairs. Presented to guests like a gift of gold.

They never got around to putting up their wedding pictures he’d said.

And now, he never will. At least not me. My only company is the other photos left to ruins, and the mouse that sometimes chews on the twine trapping us in our box.

But I guess there are worse things in the world.

It was April fifth, 2010; a Saturday like any other. Bright, and breezy like April usually is. There were 31 days to my twelfth birthday. I should have been planning for it, but I wasn’t. I should have slept in, but I didn’t. It was as if my family had been turned into the timer for a bomb, treating every moment as if it was our last. Every second counted. It was barely nine in the morning when I was forced out of bed by the sound of Charlene getting stuff out of the closet in our room.

There was no beauty in the flowers sprouting out of the garden in the front yard. Even they seemed to droop their heads as if they knew where we were going. My mother got in the driver’s seat of the van, her fingers turning white as they gripped the steering wheel when we left the driveway. I was oblivious, as I often was in these kinds of situations. A child, being forced to see something so dark. How could a child know people died and didn’t come back? What did that mean even? I didn’t know. Sure I’d known about death and funerals and had been to a few already, but I didn’t understand the point.

It was quiet in the van. Stacy in the front seat, Char and I in the middle row. The radio seemed to play sad songs with haunting melodies, which was probably how we all felt. Very little was said. I didn’t even complain about anything, which had to be a sign the world was crashing into the sun.

The parking lot was full. It’s a horrible feeling really, to realise that the owner of the car either works in an environment where death and sickness are prominent or that they are there to see someone who was dying. The Hospital loomed up like some kind of giant ready to swallow us whole. My mom and Char were holding my hands, swinging me back and forth, back and forth as a distraction while we crossed the parking lot and walked into the mouth of the beast.

I was a tiny child, and people often mistook my father for my grandfather. I told them off with the fiery passion a tiny eleven-year-old can that I was here to see my daddy. Before making it to the elevator I steered my sisters and my mother into the gift shop. I never understood the purpose of a gift shop in a hospital. Gift shops were meant for museums and landmarks that sell t-shirts with dumb sayings like “someone who loves me very much went to this place and brought me back this shirt,” gift shops were to remember something good. Today it was simply a distraction.

I hated the hospital, it was too bright, too big and smelled like it needed to be bleached every thirty seconds. My dad had been in and out since I was able to remember and I always had the mantra that if I didn’t go see him, he’d be upset and would get better to come home to me. For the longest time, I believed it, because that’s what always happened. Finally, I went, there was something in the way my mom looked at me that made me go. But I made sure to be compensated for it. The gift shop was where a Webkinz puppy was bought for me.

Finally, we got into the elevator. I was content to forget where I was so I could focus on the little toy in front of me. It was funny, in a depressing, ironic way, that I took the lead off the elevator to the ICU and knew exactly where I was going. I picked up the red phone off the wall that made me stretch onto my toes to reach it, and it rang. A lady answered politely and I sweetly but forcefully assured her that my name was Allison Jones and I was here with my mommy and sisters to see my daddy William Jones. I could hear the smile in her voice as she replied that she would open the door for me.

The doors made a loud buzzing sound as my mom held one open for my sisters and I. The stark white hallway stretched out a long way in front of us. It was terrifying, and I reached for my mother’s hand and gripped my puppy tighter in the other. As we walked down the hallway I had a habit of peeking into the other rooms to see if the people inside were okay. I always tried to, at least, make them smile. There was a man a couple of rooms away from my dad who I’d always stick my tongue out at and then he would do it back and we’d grin. He was out of bed that day, and I was so happy for him I forgot to stick my tongue out. I looked astonished for a brief second, but then beamed ear to ear and he laughed at me. I never knew his name, but I wish I did.

The beeping of machines could be heard from a couple of steps outside of my dad’s room. Just outside the door, there were masks, gloves, and gowns for us to put on. When I’d asked why my mom explained it was so that we didn’t give him our germs, I looked at her and replied but we have his DNA, we have the same germs. She smiled pitifully and patted me on the head.

We spent the majority of the day with dad. We were there reading books and helping with homework and learning that I could do mental math faster than my mom could write out the equations. It could have been a Hallmark family moment, it should have been; it felt like one. It was one if you didn’t look up from your book. If you ignored the polished floor, and the IV drip and the heart monitor and the oxygen mask. If you didn’t look out the door and see people rushing about, pushing carts and machines in scrubs. If you didn’t think about the fact dad hadn’t moved or said a word since we’d been there. I babbled on incessantly about the dog I had in my hand. Somewhere inside we knew his breathing was ragged, and his eyes barely opened and his fingers could hardly bend, but we didn’t acknowledge it. Because he’d be okay. Because he’d come home. Because he had to. There couldn’t be another option.

The fluorescent lights above started to hurt my eyes, and dad’s TV started playing the same shows over again. Char’s stomach grumbled and she laughed sheepishly. We didn’t want to ask for more than we had. We were the timer, and we were silently counting down to the explosion. Mom agreed that it was time for dinner. We packed up and took turns telling dad we’d be back after dinner. I think I kissed him - I hope I did. We all told him how much we loved him. And I stood outside the door while mom said goodbye. I saw his hand twitch like he was trying to wave at us. It had been a while since I’d heard his voice, and I wished he could say something to make me feel better.

Dinner was over, I don’t even remember what we’d had. Char and I were in our room, deciding what to bring to entertain ourselves with this time. Snapping gloves at each other was fun, but eventually, you get in trouble from the big nurse. Although the giggling probably disturbed the patients, I think they need to hear it. There’s not enough joy in a hospital. There’s so much bleak, empty feelings that take over. It’s not fair.

Mom was telling us to hurry up, visiting hours ended at eight. But then the phone rang. And I glanced over at Char who’d gone white and rigid. I didn’t know what that meant. I asked if she was okay. She put a finger to her lips and I made a gesture suggesting there was a zipper on my mouth.

Outside our room, with the door open, mom was heard loud and clear. She answered politely and then she sucked in a deep breath that took the place of “Oh God” but it sounded like the air had been stolen from her lungs and she was throwing up at the same time. Then Char was leading me out of our room by the hand to my mother in the kitchen who pulled me and my sisters into her and cried. She didn’t have to say it, we all knew what it meant; the timer was over.

It felt like the end of the world. It felt like my heart had been ripped out and stomped on by ugly, non-skid, white shoes. It was as if he’d waited for us to leave so we didn’t see it. Like a cat, he’d run off to die so we didn’t cry. But we cried. There was so much crying I imagined the house flooding and then floating away.

We mustered up some courage, and dabbed away what we could of the tears, and went back to gather up his stuff. Pajamas, his portable radio, a little stuffed-squirrel I made him keep by his bed so he wasn’t alone; none of it felt like his anymore. The room felt like a cage; like this was all there was in existence. The four walls, a window, a curtain, a door to the hall and us.

It was a crushing realisation that now I’d never hear him say my name when I came home from school. And I’d never watch another Disney movie and sing while he pretended he didn’t know the words to the songs. And I’d never get a hug from him ever again. I didn't know what else to do, so I cried. I cried and I cried until they turned to sobs, and those sobs turned into almost screams. I cried until I couldn’t breathe and I was convinced I was having a panic attack and I was going to die too.

I didn’t go to school for a week, and then almost two weeks, and teachers dropped off cards from my class. They never made me feel better because they were so generic, and sounded so forced like nobody actually cared.

At some point, my mom shared that it was their 25th wedding anniversary. April 29th was his birthday. Exactly a week before mine. I didn’t want to turn twelve, I didn’t feel like it mattered because one day we’d all be dead. Why celebrate something that meant you were that much closer to dying?

Sometimes I wish he was a terrible person, so it’d be easier to forget him. But he was my hero. He was brave and strong, but soft and sweet. He had scars and tattoos and all these stories that I could have listened to forever. Other days I wish he was in prison. At least I could see him through a glass window or something. I could hear the only voice besides my mother’s that made me feel like everything would be okay even if the world ended.

April 5th was the day I felt half of myself collapse into a numb abyss. But it’s also the day I learned that the world keeps spinning, and we have to survive because if we don’t, nobody will remember the people who deserve it. That's when I learned the severity of "in sickness and in health."

Love is hard.

What's it mean to sink your ship

Before you know you might tip

What's it like to fall in love

When nobody's ever seen above

How can you say you'd be missed

If nobody cared to see your wrists

Where could you go

Where would you run

When you already have no one.

And if you did would they care

Could they see?

If the words spilled were the colour of blood

And your tongue sharp like a blade

Would they see then?

How you hide?

What you seek?

But

What do you seek?

A place to be silent in someone's arms

A home to finally feel warmth

A love to call your own

A heart to beat along

A house to call a home

And breath that feels

Finally

Like your own.

I want to be better.

I know that I do.

It's just hard when

The only good thing about me is you.

And I try

But I cry.

And you can't see

The inside of me.

It's messy and violent

It's blacks blues and violets.

It's the walls and the blocks

I see when we talk.

And i trust you. I do.

But if you only saw what I knew.

The hands that have been

The comments from men

The looks from girls

The mess in our world.

You're sunshine and bright.

I'm darkness and night.

So I'm trying to get better.

I've tried medication with dinner

I've tried painting pictures

I've wrote my own scriptures

I've painted my nails

And sailed my own sails.

I've done what I can.

So why can't you see.

You'll always be

the best part of me.

my heart is black, just like my mind.

to no one does my spirit bind.

loving words do not help me,

they simply show what cannot be.

my darkness swallows everything

showing all my sorrows.

with every growing minute,

I begin to dread tomorrow.

I wonder what is next,

oh, in this Hell of mine.

I break in every way,

but my line is always "fine"

I'm not sure how much more

of this nightmare world, I can take

before I shatter and completely break.

#poetry #depression #gothic

The dead leaves crash,

upon the ash,

in which your body lay.

So here I stand,

to watch you rest,

while I wait

and do my best

just to hold my tears.

Down you go,

in the ground you lay,

while above,

children laugh and play.

But I cannot enjoy the fun

because you're not here.

And so, dead leaves crash

upon the ash,

in which your body lay

while I wait

to see that gate,

that allows me to see you again someday.

#poetry #family #funeral #memoriam

What is a monster?

It's movies where claws strike from under the bed. When children fear the night. When the doors close, and it's empty and dark and alone.

Does that mean the monster is the night?

No. For the night bears the moon, and the stars, and the silence. Which can be deafening but is also beautiful. The night is what marks the end of the day, it is a rest. A time to recharge.

So, what is a monster? If it is not the night, is it the day? When people walk with narcissicm, and cruelty. The world spins even as children are slain, and rapists walk free.

A monster is emotion. Envy, wrath; it is in every step.

Try not in vain to be the monster, to become the hero who slays the monster.

And yet, in each of us is both.

But the problem is, that makes them human, and that is the monster that is all too real.

I was driving on the highway. Well over the speed limit, again. I know I shouldn't. I know you won't like it. I know you would worry. But there's something so liberating about swinging over the lines. windows down while the wind blows the stray hairs through the car.

I don't often play the radio anymore. Too many advertisements and talking for my liking. But I do remember listening to the classics with you.

But I felt like listening to the radio today, I'm not sure why. For some reason the chatter didn't bother me.

I don't remember where I was going. Maybe home, to mom's. It doesn't matter really. It's just the road that makes me think of you.

A song came on, an old one. Well, older anyway. Feist. 1-2-3-4.

I can't recall ever hearing it on the radio before. It was the funny thing about that song, that you liked it. You liked Johnny Cash, and classic rock.

It's one of the chorus lines that really hits me.

"Money can't buy you back the love that you had then ."

And it made me think of you.