tell me her story, she said.
and i searched my head
for everything they had ever said
about you.
forgetting, of course, that she
had asked me.
so i paused and
fleshed out my memory
and what came to me was
squatty dr. pepper cans
aligned on the top shelf of your fridge,
bowls of black olives
and that perfect ridge on your back.
stacks of dusty puzzles
in the shallow cubby down the hall,
loose clothes and seventies suitcases
kept so nice all these years.
tell me her story, she said.
and i realized right then:
i've never even seen your bed.
i guess sleep was for the weak
and you were always much stronger than that.
of course, there's your cats
and the little christmas tree
atop your old tv
with timeless trophies
dusted in names close to mine.
those times
you would pinch my sides
and tell me i was getting fat.
yeah, i guess i'll always
remember that.
it's funny the impressions
that crowd memories
as distant details fade.
i remember the gray of your hair
and the faded brown
of your favorite arm chair.
so many years spent:
cigarette in hand
monologing your cats
with the dancing hairs on your chin.
i only wish
i remembered him.
and you both, together.
faces to stories always heard.
context to lines of anger so aptly incurred.
i painted your nails
when you couldnt move
and listened to stories
of times long ensued.
you would get so angry,
and we would just watch.
sometimes counting on the clock
to get us through.
i remember
the fights with the nurses,
the sudden bursts of curses hurled
at anyone in sight.
i wish i didn't remember
the nights when you barely knew my name.
when my father sulked in shame
at the intersection of your lives.
i just want to keep you
in the state i knew you in
with your slow footsteps
down the hall leaving the bedroom
we never saw.
why has it taken death for me to wonder?
you lay in that hospital
tucked under the sheets of delusion
and mistreatment for three years.
and i know this isn't about me
but god, i keep wondering:
why didn't i fight harder
to move you closer?
why didn't i visit
more often?
why didn't I send
those postcards i made?
why didn't i tell you
every day, thank you?
thank you for trying.
thank you for messing with my hair.
thank you for just being there.
i hate that question:
were you close?
because such situations
are more complicated than yes or no.
no, i didn't know the details of your life.
but yes, i wanted to understand
every inch of your strife.
it's your presence
that lives in my memory
and flourishes against
my father's claims of futility.
i guess i never knew you
like i wanted to, but i always felt
you wanted to know me.
and that gave me peace.
that gives me peace.
