three weeks.
that’s how long it will take you to lose confidence in your ability
to do things in the dark of your parent’s 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.
/find your glasses on your headboard to make sure house noises are just that
/go to the bathroom and not wake up the dog.
and while you are home you will wonder why you run away from them so often,
knowing that they’ll die way sooner than you want them to.
when, 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.
nine years old, you had no handkerchief to offer her, so you just squeezed her hand
and they warmed up together.
and every time your brother and sisters mention how much 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.
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