For My Mother to Find

April 5, 2001

Big green eyes. I knelt in the corner, coats and scarves draped over my shoulders as I scrunched my little body into the wall. His voice was so loud. And so scary. My eyes were puffy and my face was red as I wiped the tears from the tops of my cheeks. I was holding a big green balloon and I thought it matched his eyes. About to pop.

He told me not to eat the sugar without the strawberries. But I liked sweet things. And I was six. He screamed and shouted until my mother walked in.

Get away from her.

And I threw the big green balloon in his face.

Daddy doesn’t like sweet things.

September 2, 2013

I steadied myself against the railing, looking down at the water and wondering if any two waves could ever be exactly the same. The music pulsed through my ears, and I could feel the motion of the boat against the churning in my stomach. I felt sick.

Turning to lean my back against the railing, I felt my mouth curl into a smile as the small groups of college students jumped and twisted their bodies, making waves of their own in the water below us. The bass pulsed through the bottoms of my feet, and there was sweat against my arms, and my hair was sticking to the back of my neck. Suddenly, I felt like I needed a drink.

…

“Nice to meet you,” I said with a smile, holding my hand out politely because that’s what I was taught to do. You took it with a tight grin. I looked at you for a second longer than I should have, but I didn’t notice. And neither did you.

June 6, 2014

You glanced at me across the table and I knew you loved me. You were so beautiful, smiling like that. I thought that you may have been happy then, just for that moment. I hoped so.

…

We walked downtown. You were barefoot and holding your heels, I was holding your hand. You rested your head on my shoulder at every crosswalk and I told myself that everyone was staring because we were perfect together. And we were.

We sat by the water and talked about things that didn’t matter and your eyes forgot to tell me that you loved me, but you reached for me and your lips told me that you did.  

July 28, 2014

She sat in front of me, gripping the wheel with her white knuckles and turning her head to face me. You better not be gay.

I bit my tongue and nodded my head, staring out the window and wondering if she could see the water in my eyes.

November 21, 2014

We turned the lights off when that song came on and you put it on repeat so I could hear your love in guitar chords and a British accent while you shaped my body like a sculpture. I bent like clay under your steady hands, and my nails dug into your back like I was carving my name into dry cement. The speakers sang while I moaned your name and I wrote it, letter by letter, into the silent spaces between the end and the beginning.

March 18, 2015

The door clicked open and I rolled over, tangled up in the blankets and mumbling, half asleep. You climbed up on top of me and I rubbed your back. Your hair tickled my face and it felt like grass against my cheek. I was going to tell you I loved you, but I say that too much and I knew you could feel it in my hands.

April 29, 2015

You won’t be seeing me again.