Apology
I’m not sure if I’m allowed to tell you,
but
the door of the home we grew up in
flung open
and
the junk drawer
is stuffed full of
handwritten
apology
notes.
The hamster
we buried in the
backyard
in 2005
is scurrying across
the kitchen countertops
fresh sheets,
still hot from the
dryer
parachuted
on the bed.
Sims 2 loaded
up on the
white brick
computer
that looming dark
corner of the
basement where
I saw a ghost;
the terrible roar of
the furnace echoing in the dark.
Chalk etchings in the driveway,
portraits of our family,
as we were when we died.
Smiling, neat sweaters,
capturing the moment
we gave ourselves
to the flow of
the days
that do not
understand
mercy
or
what it
means
to cry
“uncle”.
And I have been battered by the unrelenting force of time. The terror of the nights. I have given up.
I have burned this house in my mind. I have razed this memory to the ground. I have tried to end my life twice--
I don’t know if I’m allowed to tell you, but
Step out
into the front yard.
The notes, floating in the air
coming down
like snow,
blotting out the sun.
I caught one.
I don’t remember writing it,
But it was from me, as I am, in the
loathed present--
addressed to my
ten year old self.
I could see him
watching from the
living room window,
buck teeth beaming,
ballcap turned backwards,
holding a Gameboy SP.
The note read:
“I’m sorry for giving
up on you.
For giving
up on living.”
Another floats down. Not an apology, but a response.
"It's okay.
Want to play
Animal Crossing?
That always
makes
me feel better
when I'm sad.
Or we could
look for frogs
at the grassy edge of the
retention pond.
We have time."