A Note From The Author February 1st To The Author January 1st

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