our room
in that room, i inhaled hundreds of late summer nights through the holes in the screen; cicadas and suburban silence. i hid under heavy covers, whispered into the sweaty house phone, begged the pale blue walls to tell me what was next. i tried on different faces, a naivete so pure it was almost grotesque. in the same room, you wrestled multiplying devils. in the same bed, you bargained with God for more time. one night, you had a dream that angels were beckoning and you took the first step toward them. at dawn, you ran to Mom, hollowed out with fear. it seemed so real, you kept saying, as if that would make her understand. i can imagine you in that moment, the only one caught between two worlds, the full magnitude of your aloneness coming into focus. hard to believe one ceiling could watch both a sugar-sweet childhood and the end of you. that the carpet soaked up spilled purple nailpolish and your handprints as you dragged yourself to the bathroom cabinet. was there any whiplash? an adjustment period? or is that what homes do—sit there silently no matter how brash the changing of guards from one era to the next? i can’t tell if i like to imagine us both looking at the same ceiling, mining for answers. peering into the same mirror, not recognizing our faces from one day to the next. i know i hope the cicadas lulled you to sleep some nights when you woke up in a cold sweat. i hope there was at least one moment, just one tiny moment, where the view of our cul-de-sac, from the top of our hill, in our home that we built, felt steadfast and sweet.
