A note from the author February 1st to author January 1st
Three weeks
That's how long it will take you
To lose confidence in your ability to do things in the dark of your parents house
That you've been doing off and on for 25 years
To walk from basement to bedroom without forgetting about the metal threshold in the kitchen between the tile and the hardwood
To find your glasses on your headboard to make sure house noises are just that
To go to the bathroom and not wake up the dog
And, while you are home
You will wonder why you ran away from them so often
Knowing that they will die sooner than you want them to and in fact
You want them to live forever
To never face their mortality
Because you remember your father on the day his mother died
The sound you try to forget of him sobbing in your mother's arms
In the bedroom you all shared until you were five
You remember the water weight your mother silently shed
Crying on the flight to Jamaica to bury her dad
The ones your motion sick father couldn't see
With his head pressed against the side of the plane
At nine years old, you had no handkerchief to offer her
So you just squeezed her hand, and they warmed together
And, every time your brother and sisters mentioned how better you had it
How hard they were in their day, you will think
Yes, but you'll have had longer with them
But, you'll still keep running
And you'll always find yourself back there having to be reminded
That in the recesses of your brain
Rest the choking noises your father makes when he brushes his teeth
And your mother's vaccination scars
And the sweat you wake up in sometimes when the rain crashes against the roof
They'll be there long after your parents die
Long after you've settled on how to split the sale of the house
They are, after all, that which makes up your blood
