someone is shot so the news plots it out like dots on a map because yes there is a map for the violence yes the violence can be mapped each day a body bullet-holed apple-cored and as of the time I write this poem there have been forty-four mass shootings this year and by the time you read this there will have been at least ten more so we send our thoughts and prayers and thoughts and prayers blanks in a gun that do nothing don’t even scare the perpetrators because who cares about wrath of gods when there’s the wrath of men here on earth right now with their weapons it’s not like gods can fix the wreckage after the wreck yet we squawk thoughts and prayers like chickens stretching their necks on the chopping block when no hand holds them down and they could easily run so fuck your thoughts fuck your prayers fuck your ammo fuck your guns

Dear Future,

What if we all stopped waiting and acted?

What if we all accepted every flaw and every part of each other, to see the so obvious beauty we all posses? If we saw colour, and sexuality, and gender, but we didn't behave as if suddenly they had a different personality? A different set of jokes, or a different laugh. Everyone is trying to make it in the cold, cruel world. So why do we make it even harder? Instead of being so judgemental because of someone's appearance and words, consider if it's really fair to formulate how you think of someone's existance in a few seconds. Why shouldn't we give second chances. Third. Fourth.

It's hard. I know it is. Each situation is different. If it was easy and convient, we wouldn't be having this probelm. But even if people aren't loved, being accepted is alright. At least have indifference. Annoyed with me? It's because I was being annoying, right? Not because I'm a minority?

I hope we can come to love each other. To listen and give back instead of just take. The world is about to belong to you, and I'm trying to make sure one of us leaves it better than we got it. Honestly, it is a little late for me, but I'm passing on this message in hopes you can use it. We have so much potential. So many routes to explore and people to meet.

What if we we're all treated equal?

Sincerly,

Past

The world moved differently on the other side of the glass.

In a way I couldn’t quite fathom.

After the event.

Before, I had still been different.

But in a better way.

I knew myself. I loved myself. I had respect for myself.

And I understood.

Of course. I didn’t understand everybody else; but I did understand the world. And how it worked. And how it moved. And how it was meant to be.

And I felt at one.

I often thought I should write down my knowledge, just in case I ever forgot.

Perhaps I was too embarrassed.

Perhaps I never had time.

And then I lost it.

Or, rather, it was taken from me.

Ripped from my mind.

Torn from my spirit.

In a planned way. It was an attempt to make me like them.

I could have stopped it. I should have fought back.

But my instinct, like yours, was to plough on. To not give up. Keep on keeping on.

And when I realised, it was too late. I couldn’t find my footing; couldn’t get back in step with the world.

I was walking through treacle; watching through Lucant glass, the same, but distorted. Always a beat behind.

Of course, nobody noticed. It was a fine impersonation of myself, indeed. Perhaps I deserved an Oscar!

Oh, there were plenty of clues. I couldn’t type; I couldn’t spell; hell, I couldn’t even speak properly sometimes. But that was ignored. Except by those who used it to their advantage.

But, stop! I hear you cry – you’re a fairly switched on guy. You know your mind.

Well, yes, that’s true, indeed, I do.

But I only know it now because I recognised it from a distance, as it floated from me through the air.

For many years I wandered, trying to get it back; to relocate. To no avail.

And then the shock! The shock of that great shock, which shook me; and shook them; and shook us all to our foundations; woke us all to the situation.

A terrible shock! Life evaporated from the room. Screams and tears and questions. And many fears.

But at least it sucked my mind back to me; determined not to let me fail and die.

So now I have my mind; I have my thoughts; and my understanding. And many things have returned to me, within my mind.

Now destiny awaits. Perhaps destruction. And the loss of everything.

Except my mind.

Which now, I anchor firmly.

And cherish most of all.

For I am me;

And that’s enough.

And I am me.

U: You said you were going to start writing again...

G: Yep, I did...

U: You even wrote a post about it, drew a few likes and all.

G: True, I did do that.

U: So... what happened? I mean beyond the couple of things that were the same thing...

G: Hrm, well, since you're familiar with 'things and stuff' in my brain, have you heard the phrase: "If you can't say anything nice?"

U: That's an oldy there, yes, it's familiar.

G: Well, I got into a time where the letters in my head wouldn't translate through my hands without getting? becoming? Er, something rather jagged, like broken glass flying this way and that.

U: So, you're avoiding the edge? You know that's a limiting phrase. Why not attempt to channel the 'not nice'...

G: Channel, ah yeah. It was a thought. It was also promptly beaten over the noggin rather abrubtly by the other thoughts- and some of their smaller thought fragments. Vicious little bastards at times, those fragments.

U: ... you're, uh, still doing that eh?

G: Doing 'that'?

U: That thing where you let the thoughts run rampant and they dance around you like a May Pole with cans of silly string that hardens to bind you in all straight-jackety like. THAT thing.

G: *Sigh*, I suppose it's yet another of those life long things. A challenge I'll carry with me like a comfortable old sweater until my dying day...

U: IS it comfortable? I mean, when you get down to it?

G: Good point. Like the idea that comfort is not always beneficial... it's just...

U: Easy?

G: Argh. There it is...

U: I know you've heard this before, in one form or another, yet- when is the point where you say the short discomfort of even the attempt to break the long comfort of binding thought, just might bring about a better form of comfort?

G: If I knew...

U: Would you? You were going to say you'd be there, weren't you?

G: Heh, you know me too well.

U: Of course I do. It's what I do.

G: And you don't make anything easy...

U: What credit to you, my little basket of tangled words, would THAT be?

G: Touche...

U: ;)

It wasn’t the fact that there was a dead body on the ground that shocked Audie, or the blood making a small pool below the torso. No, it was the fact it was Audie himself whom he saw standing above it. Torn T-shirt and jeans were stained with rough dirt. His face was slack, and his blue eyes dull and glassy. A bloodied knife held so tightly in his hands, the knuckles were white. His victim’s hair sprawled around the head like a bloody crown.

Audie shot up on his bed, pale faced, a cold sweat covering his forehead and brows.

Strange as that was, Audie could still hear the heavy thumping of large feet on the ground, the threatening growl echoing in his head, and the hard clap of thunder and lightning.

He turned toward the window and realized the thunder was coming from outside. A shuddering breath overtook him as he wiped a hand over his face. And it happened again. The nightmares came back. He swallowed a lump in his throat, trying to forget the dreams that unnerved him each night— hour by hour through the dark.

“Easy, now.” He told himself. “It’s fine. It’s all over now.”

The clock on the bed stand read a little after 3 AM, or some other ungodly time like that. Glancing around their little motel room, Audie caught sight of his father Silas sleeping on the rough, sitting chair. His small, old notebook with psychological notes about patients lay abandoned on his lap in peril of slipping from his limp hands.

Audie flipped off the reading lamp; it’s dull light ceased to illuminate the small room. ‘He must’ve fallen asleep reading,’ Audie thought, getting up to throw covers over him and picking up the book.

Audie looked bewildered at the text. He scarcely made out of his father’s chicken-scratch hand, but the words seemed to shift and drift off the page, becoming “halluci…” and “nigtm…”

Squinting in the dark, Audie could make out an ominous, dark thundercloud drawing with lightning strikes taking up an entire page. The black ink seemed to droop of the page as though it were still wet. The clap of thunder hit overhead looked out the window to see a dark, cloudy sky.

The weather was strange, because Audie thought the sky was supposed to stay sunny for a while after the summer. Another flash and he shut the curtains completely.

Climbing back onto the full-sized bed, he still couldn’t shake the nightmare. It was—to put it simply—a dismal, living with these chronic nightmares that often lingered into killer morning headaches.

But the worst part was knowing Audie couldn’t do anything to make them stop,

except wait for the sun to show.

“Another dream?” His father poured Audie the milk—the milk he so-clumsily forgot—in his cereal bowl. They were at the Breakfast Center in the motel. The Rigg’s Motel is in Marietta, Ohio, the town they just moved into. Just until Silas can find a new place. Again. It’s been a way of life for Audie that they move to a new town every two or three years. Audie knows it’s his issue with middle school. Or more like the middle school can’t deal with his issues or his “mental situation” as Silas preferred to call them. He doesn’t understand it—his father can be very evasive for reasons Silas says he will explain to Audie when he’s older—and, when it comes to explaining, it’s unlikely Silas’ reasoning will.

Audie muttered, “how’d you guess,” over his steaming cup of coffee, grabbing a fistful of sugar packets.

Getting his own tea and toast with eggs, Silas took a seat. He shook his head, “We need to set another appointment with someone. The nightmares are getting worse, aren’t they?”

Audie squinted his eyes in confusion. “Someone?— You mean with Dr. Joyce?”

“No. She had to go for a family emergency—“ Silas waved his hand dismissively “—or something like that.”

“Oh.” Audie said, trying to hide his disappointment. He had been getting used to Dr. Joyce, and she had been the closest to having him open up.

“Don’t worry,” his father gave him a encouraging glance, taking a sip out of his tea mug. “We’ll get someone new.”

“Great!” He cringed. Audie’s pretend excitement came out pathetically faux.

Silas must’ve seen Audie’s deflated expression, because he then said, “We can—” his father looked at him with soft, dark brown eyes “—we will get through it, Audie. Y’know,” Silas grinned, “as a family.”

Audie caught Silas rub his forearm, and his eyebrows rose in alarm at large scratches.

“How did you get those?” Audie asked, eyeing them. They were red and pink, so they must’ve been fairly new.

Silas followed Audie’s eyesight, but showed hardly any emotion on his face. “Oh! I tripped on my way to work… on asphalt.”

Audie frowned at the injuries that didn’t match with a simple fall. They looked a lot more serious.

Silas smiled, trying to get Audie to look at him and not the scratches, “Hey, I’m okay.”

Audie found comfort in those eyes, and he gave a small smile and nodded in response.

Audie then remembered. “Did you hear the thunder storm last night?”

Audie glanced at his father whose eyes turned strangely dark. “You heard thunder?”

“It was an intense thunderstorm,” Audie noted.

His father didn’t answer, and it was silent at their table. And Audie, itching to make conversation, decided to ask about last night.

“What were you writing in your notebook?” Audie asked.

“I wasn’t wri—” Silas cleared his throat and rectified himself. “You always ask too many

questions.”

“No, I don’t.” Audie objected. “You write some things. And there was a picture of a

thundercloud.”

Audie watched as Silas looked at him in confusion, internally frustrated by Silas’ never-ending cycle of evasion.

Silas opened his mouth. Probably to change the subject. “It’s that old therapist of yours. She’s getting you to believe things that aren’t true.”

Audie stopped him, “Dad, don’t— Don’t just talk to me like—like I’m crazy or some nutcase—”

“Audie!” Silas hissed.

“Just— Just… Don’t avoid the question, dad.” The thirteen year old pleaded.

At Audie’s determined gaze, Silas sighed and gave him a withering look. Then he answered simply and swiftly, “There were no drawings in my book, Audie.” And he showed him the same page Audie had seen last night, except for no dark thundercloud in black ink.

“You haven’t been getting enough rest have you?”

Audie finally looked to face his therapist. Actually, his new therapist. His old one went missing or on a trip, so his father had to assign him Dr. Tanner.

“I’ve been sleeping,” Audie lied, quickly averting his eyes to the window that presented the suspenseful, stormy sky—which has yet to rain—but continued to thunder its warnings.

“Oh, come now. We both know that’s a lie, Audie.” Dr. Tanner looked at Audie with a piercing gaze; her stare pinned him down to his seat. Audie shifted in his chair as she continued to stare and pulled at the loose string at the hem of his blue T-shirt. Despite the odd, glassy eyes, Dr. Tanner followed his every movement attentively. Like a large cougar.

Audie had a mild—no—intense distaste for his therapist. He’s had this abhorrence for her for many months now, but when asked by his father why he hated her so much, Audie just couldn’t admit that he was afraid of her.

Plus, he couldn’t disappoint his dad by not participating in the appointments he scheduled. Silas had enough on his plate, working over time and taking care of an insomniac son. Audie just needed to tough it out for a little while longer.

He could feel her predatory gaze boring into his scalp as he continued to keep quiet. She had a narrow head with dark eyes in slits like a hawk. She licked her thinly pressed lips and stared, like she did so often. “Would there be any other reason for you falling asleep in class?” She probed.

Still, slightly embarrassed and slightly angry, Audie kept quiet and tried to avert his gaze to anywhere but his therapist.

“Was it your nightmares?” Dr. Tanner asked in an effort to gain his attention.

‘What else could it be?’ It was always the nightmares.

Not waiting for Audie’s affirmation, Dr. Tanner asked again, “What was your dream about?”

Audie hated that Silas thought he needed this. His dreams never bothered anyone but himself. Audie can handle himself.

“But can your father handle you?” ‘Did she hear me?’

Dr. Tanner’s expression wasn’t at all what he was expecting: her fury quickly diminished, and a cold smile replaced it.

“Freakish, boy,” Dr. Tanner laughed and it came out like a guttural growl from the back of her throat.

“What?” And when he said that, there was the biggest thunder crack he’s ever heard. He saw the lightning flash again, and looking outside once again, Audie saw no rain.

‘What the hell is going on with this weather,’ he thought.

“There is nothing wrong with the weather, Audie.” Came a voice that sounded like someone was in dire need of a Halls cough drop.

“What do you- What the hell!” Audie jumped and fell back from his chair that fell with him and broke. Audie watched what used to be his therapist jump on her desk on her hands and feet and obtain a raised height and a dark tone, reaching ebony skin with dark patches of fur, and grow long, rusty-colored nails and a curved back. Large feet with backwards legs, sickly satin red tongue, and horns extending out of its head, contorted and twisted with anger.

Blood red eyes stared at him, and Audie with utter horror recognized them immediately.

The lightning flashed again, bringing to light the large looming figure before him, and the violent thunder rumbled soon after.

“Can your father handle much more of you?” The being’s musings came as a deep rumbling sound.

Audie yelped as he backed closer and closer to the door.

“Oh! You don’t know real or not, do you?” When she laughed it sounded like multiple voices all yelling at the same time. “Your dreams explain it all.”

Audie spotted the stray, broken leg of his wooden chair. The end was thinner than the other side, and the larger side was dangerously frayed with pointed and sharp edges.

‘Why the hell not,’ he thought and grabbed it, hiding it behind his back.

Audie couldn’t speak or move except for the little that moved his hand to the doorknob, shaking and twisting the bolted door in vain.

“Where are you going? The party’s hardly even started!” The monster continued to creep up to Audie. Then as quick as the lightning, she slammed a large paw on Audie’s chest and pushed him to the door with great force. He cringed as the sharp stick was positioned uncomfortably behind him.

“You don’t even know my name yet,” she said.

Her claws were long enough to dig under his chin. Her mouth curved into an unnatural, wolfish grin.

“It’s Tannin.”

She opened her large mouth, great jaws lined with sharp, canine teeth. The stench of rotting flesh filled Audie’s nostrils and he held back vomit.

As she dove down, Audie brought up the chair leg and drove it up her neck. The sharp object stuck, and Tannin screamed—all the voices screamed—as she staggered back.

A large inhumane wail rang throughout the room. Audie ran out of the way to try another door.

He shook the knob violently, ramming into the door in an effort to break it. Closing his eyes, he knew he would wake up soon.

It didn’t budge.

His ears started ringing. He could hear that and his heart beating crazily. Following that, a shrilling cry of a woman. Audie finally opened his eyes and the room was clear. There was bright sunlight pouring from the windows into the cerulean room. The furniture was beautifully polished. The only disorder in the room was the broken wood chair and the sticky red painting the immaculate cream carpet.

Dr. Tanner, wholly human, bleeding out on her own carpet. Audie could only stare in shock as the woman choked on her own blood.

Audie heard loud footsteps run to his direction, and the door busted open, revealing Silas,

looking disheveled.

“I—I didn’t—I don’t know what happened.” Stammered Audie, pale-faced.

Silas looked at the therapist, who was very much dead on the ground. He sighed, scratching his head, not looking as bothered as Audie expected him to be. He muttered something to himself, pulled his notebook out and wrote something down.

Tears started to spill down the boy’s face as he came upon a realization with a soft “oh.” It was a nightmare again. Audie will have to wait until he wakes up.

“I’m dreaming.” Audie assured himself. “It’ll be fine. It’s not real.”

“It’s not a dream.” Silas said.

“Yes, it is.” Audie blubbered, “I would never hurt someone—”

“You would. And you have. Several times.”

Audie shook his head. “No. No. No, I—I wouldn’t— couldn’t.” Audie looked into the eyes of his dead therapist and the stick of wood in her. ‘How did I do that?’

Silas gripped Audie’s shoulders. Staring him in the eye, Silas said, “Listen to me, son. This. Has. Happened. But your mind makes you forget every time. I have done my best to protect you from people who would take you away from me, and well, my hands are as clean as yours.”

Audie looked at Silas in realization, “Dr. Joyce…”

“She found out. Found out everything we did. Killing. Moving everytime. Repeat.”

“You took her out to coffee…”

“My plan had to resort to a rather unpleasant trip in the woods.”

Audie stared at Silas with horror, “You—You…”

“Yes. You know why.”

“You’re a killer.” Audie whispered. “You’re going to kill me.”

“I will not!” Silas screamed, stilling Audie’s shaking. “I protect you. You will always be safe from the real monsters that want to take you away like they did your mother. I would never, EVER let that happen. I am not evil… I’m a father.”

Audie was silent.

“We need to leave, Audie.”

Audie didn’t respond. Silas tapped him again, “Audie. You’re not gonna get in trouble. Not as long as I’m here. So trust me like you’ve always done before. Can you do that?”

Audie’s head was spinning, but Silas’ voice kept him grounded. Audie stared at his hands, crusted red from where the blood dried.

“Okay.”

There’s a chest in the attic that doesn’t have a lock and doesn’t need one, because nobody ever opens it. The chest is old and wooden and there are cobwebs stretched around its outsides like stakes holding a tent in place against the wind. To the left of the chest is an old lamp with no lightbulb and a few sets of old pictures, tucked away in boxes. Sometimes Maria will bring a flashlight with her up to the attic and shuffle through the pictures, just to look and remember. One day, she thinks, she’ll put them all into a giant photo album to be passed down through generations. For now, it’s hard to look for too long.

Maria doesn’t touch the chest because she believes there is nothing in it, so there isn’t. But one day, Maria leaves for a weekend shift and forgets that the stairway leading up to the attic hasn’t been pushed back into the ceiling and hidden away like it usually is.

She’s managed to raise a curious daughter.

Maria encourages any and all questions, because she knows that allowing fourteen-year-old Elena to be privy to every tiny detail about her father and about the war he never came back from is the best way to keep her from running off to find her own answers. Maria never lies, but she doesn’t say everything, either. Mostly because that would be far too complicated and far too much.

But then she leaves the stairway to the attic open.

There’s never been a rule against Elena going up there, she simply never has. But it’s Sunday and all of her homework is done and it is one of those rare, rainy Los Angeles days. And Mom left for work and Elena is bored. And the stairway is right there. So she climbs up, and she finds the boxes full of photos. She’s seen them all before, but only a few times when she’d asked for them.

“It’s not good to lose yourself to memories, mija,” her mother had explained. “We hold onto him because he deserves to be remembered and because we will always miss him, but we do not fall so far into the past that we forget that we are here without him now. That we have our own stories to continue writing.”

Elena shuffles through the pictures, listening to the steady drum of raindrops on the roof. She tucks a piece of dark hair behind her ear, nose twitching a little at the dust settling around her. If there were any ghosts in the attic, they would perhaps smile at how similar Maria and Elena look when they get lost within their thoughts. Elena bites her lip the way her mother does, settles her spine against the wooden chest, and lets herself picture what it felt like when Dad used to hold her.

It is Sunday and all of her homework is done and her mother is at work and outside the rain still falls, so Elena does not brush at the tears that slide down her cheeks as she stares at each picture. When she's done, she places the photos back into their boxes and slides them back beside the lamp without a lightbulb. And then she turns to look more closely at the chest she’d been leaning against, brushing away the cobwebs until she can see the small, metal nameplate on the front: Daniel A. Badilla.

She smoothes her fingers reverently across her father’s name, pondering. And then, with a wary breath, she opens the chest.

The air shimmers and bends, and Elena can see small, rippling waves forming in the dust in the space above the chest. The dustmites twirl around each other like sparks from a fire curling up into the wind, except they do not disappear into the air. Instead, they solidify and take shape, twisting and swirling as Elena watches, open-mouthed.

And then he is there, and he is more than a photograph.

Her father smiles at her, and Elena can feel new tears sliding down her cheeks before she even forms a coherent thought about what’s just happened. And it must be an illusion, a dream, a fevered wish she’s urged to life inside the confines of her own head. It’s a stupid instinct, but all Elena can think to do is pinch herself. Hard. She is halfway through gasping at the unexpected sharpness of her own fingernails when the sound of her father’s booming laughter stops her short. She blinks up at him, shaking her head, and his laughter fades to a small, sad smile that pulls at the corner of his right lip in just the way she remembers.

“Don’t hurt yourself, mija,” he says. For some reason, Elena thinks he should be wearing his uniform. Instead, he is in dark jeans and a faded Black Sabbath T-shirt that Elena knows is tucked away in the upper-right hand corner of her closet. Sometimes it still smells like him if she holds it close and breathes deep enough.

“Papá?” she whispers, afraid that the dustmotes will suddenly decide to scatter apart, leaving nothing but empty space. But the mirage of her father remains, and it nods. Elena blinks and pinches herself again, though she’s not sure she wants to awaken from this dream.

“It’s not possible…”

“You know better than to question what can be possible, mi amor,” her father says. He stands with a straight spine and wide shoulders, and to anyone else he might be intimidating. To Elena, he has always just been Dad. “What does your mother always say, eh?”

“Miracles are born from our faith in the miraculous,” Elena recites automatically, blushing when she sees the pride well up in her father’s eyes.

“That’s right,” he says. “My god, you’ve grown so big. Almost time for your quinceañera, no? You think your tía will run out of tears before the party ends?”

Elena snorts a little, remembering how hard her aunt had cried when her cousin Leo had finally learned to ride his bike without training wheels. Then she frowns. Tía’s eyes had been red for months and months after Dad’s funeral. Her father watches her expression carefully, reaching down to brush one of the tears from her eye. Elena feels only a whisper of his touch against her skin.

Suddenly, all Elena needs is to feel her father’s strong arms around her again. She reaches for him and he pulls her against his chest. He is not completely solid against her, his form shifting slightly beneath her fingers, but if she focuses enough, she can almost squeeze him tightly enough.

“Why is it so different?” she asks, feeling childish for asking. Of course it would be different.

Her father shrugs. “I do not know all the rules yet, mija. But I bet we can learn them together. How does that sound to you?”

Elena bites her lip the way her mother does, and the ghost in the attic does smile at the similarity. “You’ll be here? You’ll stay?” she asks.

“For as long as you need me, mija, I will stay,” her Dad promises. “But you cannot visit every day or even every week. If there are things to say, you wait until many pages have been filled, and then you can tell me all at once. Do you understand?”

Elena nods. “I understand.”

“Okay,” her father nods. “And understand this, too: you are not writing your story only for me. I will be glad to hear all about the beautiful life you create, but you must remember that you are writing it for yourself.”

Around them, the dust has begun to stir again, a breeze with no origin curling up from the floorboards and slithering around the form of Elena’s father.

“I love you, Dad. I’ll come see you soon,” Elena promises, her bottom lip quivering.

“Te amo, mi querida,” her father answers, even as he loses his shape, dissolving back into the chest in a short, tiny whoosh of air. When Elena's tears have finally stopped falling, she slowly closes the wooden chest engraved with her father’s name, walks back down the attic stairs, curls up in her bed and goes to sleep.

The next morning, Elena brings Maria up to the attic, tells her not to be afraid as she opens the chest and waits for the dust to swirl. But the air remains still, the floorboards silent. Her father does not come, and Maria does not understand what she was meant to see. Elena is too upset to tell her.

Years pass, and Elena visits her father as often as she can. Tears made from tiny specks of dust slide down his cheeks when she shows him her college diploma. On her wedding night, she insists to her new husband, Jacob, that it will be easiest to stop by her mother’s house for the extra toothbrush she’ll need on their honeymoon. There is a small coating of dust along the bottom of her wedding dress by the time she makes her way back outside and into the car. Jacob doesn’t notice, and Elena doesn’t care. She’d gotten her father-daughter dance.

Elena gets a marketing job and then a promotion, and she tells her father about it with wistful excitement. The job is in Atlanta, and she and Jacob are already packing. She promises to visit soon, that she will have stories to tell when she returns.

The fire that consumes her mother’s house four months later doesn’t leave much in its wake, but luckily Maria herself had already evacuated a few days earlier.

Elena’s first thousand thoughts are for her mother, grateful for her safety but mourning with her for all that she lost to the flames. Her next thousand thoughts are for the wooden chest in the attic, the one she knows will no longer be there. When the fire is finally contained three days later, Elena flies home to help her mother sort through whatever might remain. She insists that Jacob stay behind in Atlanta for his own newly-found job, but he takes the plane seat beside hers.

It takes a long time for Elena to end her mother’s embrace after they land, neither of them ready to see what is left standing after the fire. But Elena thinks of her father, of the now-lost pictures in the attic and the strength he always carried with him and insisted she had inside of her, too. She rolls her shoulders back, lifts her head, and leads the way.

Elena stands in the middle of the rubble, her chest aching. After hours of searching, they have managed to salvage almost nothing.

“Elena,” Jacob says, so softly it is almost a whisper. “We should go back to the hotel. We’ll come back tomorrow, okay?”

Elena shakes her head, tears welling up behind her eyes for what feels like the millionth time today. Jacob frowns and cants his head, directing Elena’s eyes over to Maria. Elena’s mother is perched on the singed remains of a coffee table in what used to be the living room. Her legs are crossed, her thin arms are covered in a layer of soot, and she is lost somewhere inside her head, staring through a matrix of support beams that used to be a wall. Elena turns back to her husband and nods in surrender, and Jacob begins making his way through the rubble to get to Maria. Elena can’t hear what Jacob says to her, but a moment later, he reaches out a hand to help her up, and she takes it.

Elena sighs and turns to take one, last look at the rubble. A glint of something on the ground catches her eye, and she bends down to retrieve it, her eyes once again filling with tears when she realizes what it is. She runs her fingers over the silver nameplate, smudging at the ash until her father’s name can be seen clearly. Behind her, Jacob is leading Maria back to the car.

“You promised,” Elena whispers to nobody but the smog-filled air, her lip quivering. “You promised that you would be here for as long as I needed you, Papá. And I will always need you.”

Around her feet, the air remains still.

It is another, long moment before she can force herself to move again, but she finally manages to make her way back to the car where Jacob and her mother are already waiting, her father’s nameplate gripped tight inside her palm. They drive back to the hotel together in silence, the air around them thick with smoke and grief. As they make their way to the elevator, Maria asks her daughter to come to her room before she goes to sleep.

“Only for a moment, mija,” her mother urges when she sees the exhaustion pulling at her daughter’s eyelids. Elena nods and follows her mother into her hotel room while Jacob opens the door to the one across from it.

Once inside her mother’s room, Elena sinks down onto the mattress. “What is it, mamá?” she asks. Maria holds up a finger. Un momento. She shuffles over to her suitcase in the corner of the room, returning a moment later with an enormous, blue book in her hands. She passes it off to her daughter.

“What is it?” Elena asks, something fluttering inside her chest as she presses her fingers into the thick spine.

“Open it,” her mother says, settling into the mattress beside her. Elena does.

She gasps, letting her fingers drift along the outline of her father’s face from where he smiles back at her from a familiar photograph. She turns the page, and then the next, allowing herself to get lost in the memories she’d thought were gone forever.

“When did you...?” Elena asks after a moment, turning to face her mother.

“The day after you left for Atlanta,” Maria answers. “One day, my grandchildren will need to know who their grandfather was. I had time to pack a small bag before I evacuated."

Elena huffs out a breath, letting her gaze drift back to the photo album. “Do you remember when I showed you that old chest in the attic all those years ago?” she asks. From the corner of her eye, her mother nods. “It was Dad. He was in there, somehow. It was some kind of illusion or magic. I visited all the time, told him about my life. And now he’s gone. He’s really gone, and I don’t know if I can stand it.”

Maria runs a hand through her daughter’s long hair. “Oh mija, he will never be gone. You know this.”

“But it’s not the same!” Elena shouts suddenly, flinging the photo album onto the floor. She rises from the bed, pacing furiously. “He was here. I could feel his arms around me!”

To Elena’s incredulity, her mother laughs. “You think you are the only one he came to see?” she asks, shaking her head.

Elena freezes. “What?” she asks.

Maria chuckles again, but it is weary and filled with sadness. “Oh Elena,” she coos. “Your father comes to me often. Asleep. Awake. In the middle of a long work shift. I can feel his fingers in my hair. I can see his lip curl around that devious, little smile of his. The ones we love always find ways of coming back to us.”

Elena shakes her head, begins pacing again. “No, you don’t understand. This was different.”

Maria sighs. She gets up from the bed, retrieves the discarded photo album. Elena watches guiltily as she returns it to her suitcase. “It has been a long day,” Maria says. “Get some rest.”

Elena nods, hugs her mother hard before she goes. In the hallway between her mother’s room and the one she shares with Jacob, Elena tries to collect herself. She breathes deeply, pulling her father’s nameplate from her pocket.

The air moves.

Elena’s breath catches, and for a moment she thinks she imagined it. But then something shifts below the surface of the hallway carpeting. The fibers of the carpet straighten and then break off from the ground, swirling out into the space in front of her, twisting around themselves until he appears as if he had always been there, as if he had never left. Elena gasps, any words she might’ve said stuttering to a stop before she can form them. Her father speaks first.

“Mija,” he says, smiling crookedly. “I thought you knew by now that it was never about that silly, wooden box.”

“Papá?” Elena whispers, choking on the words.

Her father smiles softly, reaching to brush away the fresh tears on her cheeks. “I am here, always,” he says, gesturing to encompass the space around them. “I am in the wind that curls around your hair. In the spaces between each breath you take. In the beating of your heart. I am everywhere you go, Elena, because you choose to take me with you.”

Elena curls her fingers more tightly around the nameplate, smiling through her tears. “As long as I need you?” she checks.

“As long as you need me,” he nods, holding her gaze.

“Okay,” Elena says.

“Okay,” answers the memory of her father.

The air shifts again, his form rippling and shimmering in front of her. The last of his visage fades back into the hotel carpeting. Elena smiles.

By early morning, his hands no longer shake.

The world smooths out, a canvas painted over with a base-coat of white; all the cracks filled in, waiting for the first splash of color. Right now he feels a little unsteady, but the sun hasn’t quite risen. He has time. He pours himself some coffee and makes it extra Irish, presses both hands against the warm mug as if it could spread its heat all the way to the ends of his toes before he even takes a sip.

By the time Josie and the kids stumble, bleary-eyed and yawning into the kitchen, he’s on his second cup and has enough eggs and sausage links for all four of them simmering on the stovetop. Maya, their youngest, smiles wide when she sees breakfast is almost ready.

“Good morning, Daddy!” she says, the last dregs of dreariness leaving her as the smell of toast reaches her nose. “You made breakfast!”

He grins and reaches down to pick her up, hands steady enough now to hold her tightly. He kisses her cheek, blowing raspberries until he elicits that perfect little giggle he loves. “I did, honey. Tell Willy what you want to drink and then you can grab us some napkins. How’s that sound?”

“Okay!” Maya agrees easily, allowing herself to be lowered back down. She runs to the pantry where she knows the napkins will be, grabs entirely too many and begins compiling little stacks of them around the dining table in the next room. Willy, with his wild hair and vivid freckles, pours the drinks without needing to be asked twice, and Josie watches the scene with a wistful look. Her husband leans in for a quick kiss, and she tastes more than coffee on his lips. The wistfulness remains, now laced with something else.

She waits until Will and Maya are gone, waves to them as they clamber onto the big, yellow school bus. Then she faces him in the cool, gray kitchen, watches him try to maintain the smile that doesn’t quite stretch as wide as it used to, doesn’t curl in all the same ways she remembers from back when she loved him most.

“Baby…” she starts, then stops. She’s said all of these things before. She doesn’t know any more words. The English language hasn’t invented the right ones for this: the conversation after the conversation.

“I know,” he says, the same way he’s said it so many times before. Like things will change. Like they’ll bypassed the ending, rewrite the story to say something different. But they won’t. They can’t. Josie knows that by now.

“I don’t think you do,” she says anyway. She holds her own mug of coffee now. Just coffee. Sighs long and deep and hollow, the way the air sounds as it whistles in the space between a forming wave and the rest of the ocean. “He’s different, you know.”

“Who, Willy?” her husband asks, his left eye shifting just a little off-center from her face. It’s how she knows he’s past his third drink. That and the steadiness of his hands. “Baby, Willy doesn’t understand…” he tries.

“Not Willy,” she interrupts. “You. Him. It’s two different people. It’s not…” she has to stop again, has to run a hand down her face and remind herself that this is what she has now, even if she used to have something else. “I miss him. I miss you.”

He sighs like he has the right to be impatient. “I’m right here.”

“You’re not.”

He doesn’t answer. He just moves himself a little closer so that he’s leaning across the counter from her, and then he looks her in the eye, trying to say something the way they always used to be able to. If she doesn’t stare back too closely, she thinks it might almost be the way it used to be. She tries. She searches, thinks maybe she can see a little of that glint he used to have in his gaze. But then that left eye twitches again and there’s nothing behind it and she blinks and turns toward the sink and the window where the school bus isn’t anymore, where the small breeze is rustling the newly-green leaves.

“You don’t want him back,” he says, finally. There is something past sadness in his voice, and Josie can’t look at him and his twitching left eye, because then she really might lose it. “You think you do, but you don’t,” he insists. “He’s different than he used to be. He’s….his hands shake and he can’t pick up his children and the air around him is too full of static. He’s afraid of everything. He’s angry at everything. He yells. Don’t you remember how he yells?”

She’s close to crying now. Just a few tears welling up behind her eyes, though they haven’t fallen yet. She turns back around to face him because it doesn’t matter if he sees. He’s seen it all before and he’s still in the same place he was a five months ago. “And you think this is better?” she asks, gesturing to the man who stands in front of her, his fingers steady and his face flexing and pulling like wax-paper, expression warped beneath a layer of something else, something that doesn’t belong on him.

“Yes,” he says, lowering his eyes to the countertop. He drums his fingers along it, a dull thumping.

“Prove it.”

He looks up at her, a question in his uneven gaze.

“Give me tomorrow,” she clarifies. Her eyes are steady, even with the tears still resting against her lashes. “Give me tomorrow, and then we’ll see which one you are. Which one you want to be.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

His hands are shaking.

The world is all rough edges, a canvas that’s been splattered over with a million different colors and patterns, messy and unfinished and terrifying. He feels more than a little unsteady, and the sun is already up. He doesn’t have time. Josie pours him a coffee and makes it with extra cream, helps him curl both of his shaking hands around it as if she could spread her warmth all the way to the ends of his toes before he even takes a sip.

Breakfast is just cereal today, and Maya smiles the same way she did yesterday, though she doesn’t understand why Daddy doesn’t pick her up and gobble at her cheek until she giggles in the way he loves.

“Good morning, Daddy!” she says, pushing her face against his knees instead. He pats the top of her soft head and smiles, and it seems to stretch further than it did yesterday, seems to curl his lips in all different ways. Josie watches, wistful as she was the day before.

Maya gets too many napkins and Willy gets the drinks, looks up at his Dad with a little bit of milk dribbling down his chin and a piece of cereal stuck to his lip. “You okay, Dad?” he asks, eyebrows scrunched together the same as when he’s trying to do his science homework.

“I’m good, kiddo,” he nods, hands still wrapped around his half-drunk coffee mug and eyes blinking a little more than usual and smile still stretched wide. “Why do you ask?”

Will shrugs, licks his lip so that the Cheerio resting there drops onto the table. “Seem different,” he says.

“Huh,” his dad shrugs back, biting his lip against a small wave of nausea.

He and Josie watch from the kitchen window as Willy helps his sister carry her lunchbox onto the bus, settles into the seat beside her and pushes back a little piece of her hair that’s fallen away from the rest of her ponytail.

As the bus pulls away, he and Josie face each other in the cool, gray kitchen. She takes his hand, feels it tremble in her own.

“Baby…” he starts, then stops. He’s said all of these things before. He doesn’t know any more words. The English language hasn’t invented the right ones for this: the atonement after the atonement.

“I know,” she answers, the same way she’s answered so many times before. Like things will change. Like they’ll manage to turn back the clock, rewire the machine to make something different. But they won’t. They can’t. They both know that by now.

He sighs, long and deep and hollow, the way an echo sounds when it travels the expanse of a gaping forest.

The next morning, his hands are steady.

His left eye twitches, and there is no glint behind it.

If I, King Julien (that's my name), only had two days left to live, I would do all the things I have ever dreamed of doing. I would love to become a professional whistler. I'm pretty amazing at it now, but I wanna get, like, even better. Make my living out of it. And you know what else I would do? I would...invade a neighboring country, and impose my own ideology even if they didn't want it!

#favoritekingjulienmoment

the light across your face

reminds me of drifting in saltwater —

your hands

clutching the buttons on my coat

as you fell into my knees.

(and kissed me.)

i asked you who you loved more.

now, and even then,

even when

you felt like death but

you brought me a glass of water.

as i lay in bed and gazed up at you,

wishing you would

cross your body over mine again.

oh, god — you laughed! (fiercely.)

is it enough to love you like this?

supine, hardly daring to breathe before

i see you. and reach for

your hands.

your body as an empty room

where you welcome me in. you love me.