I open the window

So I don’t suffocate

But the air doesn’t reach my lungs

As I try to count my breaths

 

Monday I came in to see you

For the last time.

The last time.

 

And I never said goodbye.

 

Wednesday I took a test.

Back at school and then went home.

I don’t remember anything

Beside the PSAT and the moment you were gone from me.

I remember it was 9.

 

DAD IN THE HALL.

BEDROOM DOOR OPENS.

“IM HOME”

(the last time I believe in miracles as I think you might be too)

“WHERE’S MOM?”

“SHES GONE”

 

black. Repeat.

 

I remember how everything got worse from then.

It doesn’t get better

You get used to it.

You get used to cold,

Just the absence of heat.

You get used to the holes when they become a part of you.

 

I don’t remember forgetting.

Your face gets fuzzy.

I conjure up your voice but I lost your laugh.

I can’t hold on to everything that’s flying away from me

In a thousand different directions

And when someone asked me last week

I can’t remember your favorite food

It’s been viciously consumed by the ghost of time.

 

I remember the look on your dad’s face,

Yes, this is what I remember most,

The look as he stared at you

With silent tears

And the face of a man

A veteran of war

Who was never prepared for the devastation of life

As he is told his daughter will die.

She will die slowly.

And he can’t save her,

But he can watch

As the life drains out of her.

 

I gasp for air uncontrollably

Leaning my head out the window.

As I am stuck remembering

Memories block air from reaching my lungs.

Stuck on repeat

Spinning spinning spinning

And it’s been two years.