Article and Art by Bella Houck
swamp cooler stickiness;
loud thunderstorms in july;
the song of cicadas in spring;
can i ask you a question?
humming to myself in my room;
swelled doors, forcing them shut;
the pattering silence of snowfall;
how many years until the sickly sap from our family tree trickles down my throat?
wind rustling through barren branches;
hands rubbing together after being washed;
swallowing a sob;
i think i want to know how you felt right before you did it.
was it relief?
fear?
guilt?
regret?
nothing?
what did you think of right before?
what was the last thing you ate?
why did you put on those pants?
that shirt.
your watch.
i peel back the wallpaper to find my bones holding up the house.
my mother singing gently, not very often;
garbage disposal growl;
an old landline ringing,
the incessant dial tone;
did god deal me the same hand as you?
can i peek?
bus coming to a stop, a long exhale;
listening to conversations from the staircase;
the slow steady pulse of water pulling through the pipes as someone showers;
i’m trying to find the balance of good and bad in the world.
of happiness and despair in mine.
when did you realize one outweighed the other?
that there was nothing keeping you here.
that family parties and grandchildren growing up and picking lemons and taking photos and hugging your son and kissing your wife weren’t enough.
i taste the syrup–
i dry heave.
ear on the kitchen table, fingers drumming against the hollow wood;
whirring mechanical pencil sharpener;
buckles and zippers hitting metal chair legs;
i remember peering into the bedroom and seeing dad lie in bed, his back facing me.
the light was still on.
mom gently ushered me out.
silent sobs in the closet, don’t wake anyone up;
christmas morning quiet;
putting dishes away in the dishwasher, clinking porcelain;
i care so much. i care so much that i often think i don’t care at all.
that really terrifies me.
talking to adults, trying to feel older than I was;
forks on plates after spaghetti dinner;
the crinkle of sparkling water in a glass;
i think you’d be proud of me.
i don’t know.
you always felt mystic to me.
rough and calloused hands.
square glasses and those hats my dad wears now.
i look in the mirror, wondering how much of your face is in mine.
our “houck” eyes squint as I look into the sun.
our hair against my ears.
our sleepiness after eating carbs.
our laugh.
our dimples.
clicking heels on hardwood;
swoosh of fabric against your leg;
carpet static;
i don’t want to say it out loud because it evokes a certain kind of response from people.
i’ve been so detached for so long that their pity and sadness don’t really belong to me.
i guess they belong to you, but you’re not here anymore.
you haven’t been here for a long time.
the silence after a final note, right before the applause begins;
crushing a can once you’ve emptied it;
green grass shuffling through your fingers;
an airplane taking off for the first time.