Every day I die and am reborn.
For every day I remember more, and more.
And also less, and less.
The years locked in my own mind was a death of sorts.
And I am still in mourning.
I remember the avocado tree we nutured from a seedling in Fairfield and planted outside.
Except they do not grow in that cold climate.
Surely it must have died.
I remember the day my father shaved his mustache like it was yesterday at the wildwood shore. He hasn’t had one since.
I remember the rounded tortoiseshell glasses. The medium brown hair. The smile.
When he was the age I am now.
I remember the suits and suspenders. “My Girl” to fall asleep at night.
Walking on his toes as he held my hands.
I remember my mother sending me to my room during dinner, and her laughing as she came in to find me playing with my toys spread all over.
I remember my sister blaring her music from her bedroom. I remember her flying alone with me across the country. We were so young. I remember her using the pay phone when our luggage was lost. She made me feel safe.
I remember my baby brother being born on a Tuesday. It was a Tuesday because I missed ballet. I remember holding him. Loving him more than anything in this world and thinking that could never, ever change. I remember his tiny fingers and toes.
The sharpness of the loss, of what once was. I have written so much of the cruelty and pain. But it would be easier to shoulder if I still had the veil to hold back the good memories.
How could you how could you how could you.
I don’t understand. I was still locked inside.
After everything, how could you?
Laughs and Lobotomies 