i found a gum wrapper in the bottom of my purse after i had moved my wallet and makeup pouch to my new tote bag. i got ready to toss out the flimsy paper and move on with cleaning my purse. but the faded traces of ink on the white underside of the silver wrapping stopped me in my tracks on the way to the trashcan and i flipped over the torn artifact. i unfolded the corners and smoothed the paper on my desk with the back of a spoon i had left there after lunch. written in night sky tinted ink:

was i meant to feel something?

who was i? was i i? did i write this about myself? it was my obnoxious, loopy handwriting; it had to be me. was i meant to feel something? feel something about what? i feel something about everything. i feel something when a bird sits outside my window for a moment too long. i feel something when the elderly woman down the road sits alone in her car after turning it off. how could i not feel something?

was i meant to feel something?

what could possibly be so dull and unintriguing that i, she who cries at red cardinals on dirty windowsills and old women turning off their cars, felt nothing?

with my original task long abandoned, i sat on my desk chair and read the phrase over and over and over and over.

was i meant to feel something?

was it a sentence i heard someone say that struck me so deeply i had to write it down? did i say it and strike myself so deeply i had to write it down? was it an elaborate joke i decided to play on my future self in a moment of boredom?

was i meant to feel something?

if i didn't feel anything when i wrote it down, i surely felt something in the hours i stared at the paper. i felt so much that i called friends and asked if i'd ever said it to them. i heard their poorly concealed concern through the phone. "she's finally lost it." "she's gone absolutely nuts." "should i go pick up a short bus to drive her to the loony bin?" they didn't say it but i could hear it. i was so desperate for an answer, i might have considered taking that ride on the short bus.

was i meant to feel something?

what could possibly make me feel nothing? why was my mind failing me? why was i being left to pick up the pieces of a story i didn't know i had started? was i meant to feel the nothing that comes with losing a part of your story because you can't remember? was this how black-out drunks felt in the mornings after a particularly rough night? i don't know what the question meant, but i know i felt something. something that made me rip up the wrapper and throw it in the trash in a fit of red-faced tears and unbridled rage at the loss of a moment in my history.

was i meant to feel something?

i don't know. i don't know. i don't know.

Hashtags: #ramble #firstdraft #streamofconsciousness

remember when we used to be in the backyard with the big trees

dad playing guitar simple iced tea

the soccer balls we kicked out from under

his feet do you remember

remember the scars we didn't have yet they say you can't

see the forest for the trees the people we are when

we're not fully formed do you remember

remember when you sent me a text after

the hospital i was in restraints they said do you love her

i said i will die for her you left me on read

remember when i cried drank too much wine you said

i will never forgive you the black night in california

looks a lot like your heart

remember your arms before tattoos the

ink that didn't bleed like

your wounds that

dried too soon

remember when the future

shone like a night light your

anger that hadn't

awakened in the dark

remember when your words didn't

swallow people whole what

is left of us is gone

“He smells bad,” the sour-faced child snivels. A chocolate milk mustache sullies her upper lip.

If dogs could roll their eyes, Alfred’s would’ve seen his own saggy eyebrows. Call him smelly? If only she knew how rank her body was. From hairy head to sweaty toes, it was a bouquet of unpleasant odors. The mother had tried to smear and swath the stenches away with manufactured deodorants and shampoos, but Alfred’s nose wasn’t deceived. If anything, the stew of mixed odors was even worse.

“You could give him a bath,” the stout shelter worker offers. Her round face smiles, squeezing her eyes into crescents. “Wouldn’t that be fun? Giving your own dog a bath?”

The girl aims her petulant face upward and pinches it into a tight scowl. “Mo-om, I don’t want a smelly old dog. Where’s the puppies?”

The mother’s glands produce a sulfurous scent--the scent of anxiety. “Do you have any puppies available?” she asks. “We were thinking something just ready to be adopted in time for Christmas next month.”

“Are you sure you don’t want Alfred?” the shelter worker implores. “He’s waited so long for a home.”

“We’re sure,” the mother insists as a wail emerges from the girl’s mouth.

They leave, the wail tapering into silence. Except for occasional visitors and feeding times, Alfred’s world is made up of silence.

It didn’t used to be though. He used to have a home, a family. It was just the two of them, Alfred and Sonja. Sonja smelled of lemon tea and cocoa butter. They took walks at sunset and she would throw the ball.... But then she got too old for that. So they stayed inside and Sonja would caress his ears and tell him he was handsome. But then she got too old for that. And then one day the smell of lemon tea and cocoa butter withered away, and the next, he was discarded.

Huffing, he collapses onto his side. He’s beginning to accept this as home. His cold-steeled, hard-floored, humdrum home. The bell on the front door chimes. Another visitor looking for puppies.

He ignores the soft voices that speak, the light footsteps that approach… him? The door swings, stirring up a mild breeze. Alfred’s nose twitches; a memory triggers.

The world had turned brown and chilled. Darkness comes early these nights. But Sonja frolicks through the bright kitchen, chopping and whisking a cacophony of delectibles while the pots steam cheerily. Alfred observes from a comfortably tattered rug. The scent of roast turkey marinates the air and titillates every taste bud.

The visitor peers into Alfred’s kennel; the aroma of turkey strengthens. “Well aren’t you a looker?” the man’s timbre voice croons.

Unbidden, Alfred rises to his feet, tail shimmying in an almost-forgotten way. The man crouches and unlatches the kennel door. Alfred snuffles at his beard, and the scent of the roast bird mingles with the scent of happiness. Gratitude flows from his nose down to his wagging tail.

I went outside to smell the roses today. The soft petals delicately kissing my fingers as I moved along them. It was the kindest feeling in the world. Above me millions of miles away, the warmth of the ball of energy that we call the sun touching my neck. I was grateful to be there today, to expierence what I didn’t yesterday. Today was a new day and each day has new beginnings, this is what happiness is. The chance to be better today than yesterday.

I don't wear seatbelts anymore. Maybe it's to make up for a rebellious nature I've never had, or maybe I just don't like constructing my lungs anymore than they already are.

I lean too far over the edge of bridges and stare too long outside my mother's window on the twentieth floor of her office building. I don't shy away from the thought of flattening against the car parallel parked below; I invite the feeling of weightlessness to take over.

I let my bicycle almost careen over the ledge, almost pull me into the ditch, almost barrel into the stop sign. I think I just want to know if the car will stop for me if I pull out slow enough. And sometimes I wonder if I'll ever let myself hit the sign.

I used to wrap my curtains around my neck and tightrope walk along the foot of my bed. Once, I fell and sprained my ankle. I didn't tell anybody how it happened.

I used to hold onto the top of my dresser to see if it would fall on me. I would hang upside down until the blood rushed to my head because I liked the feeling. I would stop eating for a day, so I could pretend I was in the Jamestown colony. I would hold white crayons to my lips and wonder about lung cancer. I would hold my breath until my face turned blue.

I don't want to die, not really. It's just that sometimes I wouldn't care if I did.

Sometimes I think about all the sensations I'll never feel.

Her shaven legs against mine. The warmth of her soft hair in the sunlight. The small of her bare back as I embrace her close. Her delicate fingers brushing mine as we walk. That long-craved kiss, smooth and lingering, with a hint of mint chapstick. The tingle after seeing her silhouette through the shower door. Her generous, round breasts pressed against my small ones. Her sweet vanilla smell on the sheets.

Don't get me wrong, I'm happy. I wouldn't change anything about the life I share with my boyfriend, my partner, my love. But sometimes I think it's good to grieve the parallel self I'll never know.