On January 21st, I had this silent memory of my mom’s heart monitor, right before it finally stopped.  I remember her knowing she was going to die, and how scared she was to finally do it. When I remember the last week of my mother’s life, I either pour myself a cup of coffee or wine depending what time of day it is.

I’ve pinned my hair just so that’s it’s corporate. No part of my pixie is rock and roll. Underneath, a borrowed studded belt hangs at my hips. The cars seem noiseless passing by. I walk by the bus stop I usually wait at. I look down the street and I see the fog hanging over the top third of the Sears Tower. I wonder what it’s like to be up that high, and look out your window to see nothing.

I have three guys texting me about platonic plans, but I’m anxiously waiting for the girl. I pour my first glass of the night. Dinner simmers slowly in the pot but it still sets off the fire alarm. I reach up to stop the beeping, with the added length from an empty bottle, pulled from its sisters on my kitchen table.

I hide in my bed, until an angry song awakes me. I hide in an office, equating my self esteem to the problems I keep solving. I hide in a bottle because it’s easier than speaking, even on paper. I want to be speechless for a while, though I’ve never had more to say.


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