I’ve got my brain on inside out
And I cannot help but shout
That you never loved me
The way I loved you best
And this world’s tired and old
Quite a lot like the two of us
Remember what you’ve been told
And forget what you knew of us
If the day is done tonight
The sun doesn’t rise tomorrow
Please tell your mother
That there never was another
And I loved her daughter
More that I could ever say (more…)
There is a photograph. Two boys stand
in straw hats, their arms draped
over each other’s shoulders, freckled
faces grinning into the camera. Behind them,
I remember, is a leaning barn, and an ancient orchard
scattered through pines. I can still feel
the summer heat blowing across the creek,
picking up the fragrance of tadpoles and rattlesnakes.
The older boy is ten, and is me.
My brother John is eight. He has already lived
more years than he has left. (more…)
And she stole my sharpie.
Remember that time I opened my mouth and screamed? Me too.
She looked at me from under her old lady afro and asked why I was in the street. I yelled at her, and cursed her, and sent her to hell a million times.
All of my memories are in technicolour. It was so beautiful. And he yelled I’m a nurse! I’m a nurse! And the ambulance came and asked if I could walk and I lied. I said yes and fell and she caught me. I wouldn’t let them leave until they called my mom, but memory was somewhere else and I didn’t know the numbers.
I must have remembered, because she was there when the gourney came undone and I was nearly thrown back out in traffic. The ambulance doors swinging wide as I rolled toward the opening. But we were already stopped and they just rebuckled me. Like everything was fine.
Then I peed in a cup and cried and tried to sleep. I think I made a joke, but I don’t remember the punchline. I asked them to call my sister, and they did. She promised to beat that driver up for me. Sock her in the jaw. I laughed and it hurt. They Xrayed my bones.
Nothing broken but my brain. They sent me home and I ate wasabi. I don’t know if my best friend was there or if I only asked for her. I don’t know if she brought be rasberry sorbet, or if I just wished she had. I think she did, but I’ll never know for sure. Even when she tells me, it doesn’t bring my memories back.
I wrote a blog post that day, and someone sent me a care package. It had a pig in it and I named him Feodore. He smelled like licorice. I remember that part. Days after.
I didn’t scream again for a long time. I can’t open my mouth any more.
The summer I turned fifteen was the hottest summer in the recorded history of our whole county. I knew because it was on the news. I always knew what was on the news. While other families sat together and watched sitcoms, my family watched the news.
I spent most of my summers barefoot, because sweating inside your shoes is the most disgusting feeling I knew of. It still is. Everyone wore shoes that year, though. Even the really tough kids couldn’t walk on the hot sidewalk with no shoes. (more…)
Sidewalk.
I think last goodbyes are like the flaccid ends of whip-cream cans. First goodbyes are pert and eager, sweet as anything. You’re just so excited to see that person later today, tomorrow, next week. As you go on the goodbyes and the cream all lose their body and turn into dribble. That’s just how it has to work.
