Her

When you died,

I stopped writing in my journal. 

I didn't care anymore. 

I didn't want the memories to leave me. I wanted them to be mine. 

And if I wrote them down, I would have a reason to forget them. 

Someone else - something else - would remember them for me. 

I don't know anything about you. 

What is the song you always listen to when you're angry? 

Did you bite your nails when you were nervous?

What's your dream future like? 

The one that no longer exists. 

How did it feel when you told your sister you were gay? 

Tell me again. 

I'm afraid I'm forgetting. 

51 minutes. 24 seconds. 

We skyped on November 20. 

And I wish I had that saved. 

Where are our texts? Our fb messages? 

I deleted them. 

Space, I said. I need space. Storage. 

But I can't be a hoarder. If I kept everything from all my friends. All my memories. 

Every detail. 

I'd drown. 

But I wish I had. 

I wish I had made a box, labeled it with your name, filled it with the memories of 

Your favorite stuffed animal, 

What gives you goosebumps, 

What songs can't you ever hit the right notes on, 

Why you were so afraid to tell me goodbye. 

I made you give me a hug. 

You were crying 

You said. You hate goodbyes. And lately 

You've said goodbye to too many people. 

I should've visited. 

I could've visited. 

Time. Money. 

Whatever. 

I should've. 

And even though you were with someone else, you told me 

How you had hoped it would've been me, 

Across the country, two opposites 

Skyping until 2 then 3 am. 

You made fun of me when I said y'all 

I made fun of you for assuming I was straight. 

I remember that dream. 

My first dream of you 

When I texted you the next morning, 

Telling you I had dreamt I tried to kiss you. 

How nervous I was for your reply. 

And the way you flirted and the way you made me feel. 

That postcard, sent months later, when you said you had stories to tell me, stories that wouldn't fit on that card. 

I wish you had tried 

Because now I don't know those stories. 

I only have the ones I make up in my head 

That start with 

Dear honey 

And end with

Love, Smurf. 

A forever stamp, crooked in the corner, 

How ironic. 

Reviews

[M. Hassen]

I love the concept of this. The thing I’m grappling with, though, is the third line, "I didn't care anymore." I understood the conversation that followed to support the idea that the narrator in fact cared too much about the memories -- that they were too important to offload onto some external medium. The “uncaring” just refers to the mere recording. But, I wonder if it wouldn’t have more pull flipped to something like “I just cared too much” playing on the ambiguity so the reader questions, "If she cared too much, why did she stop?" Just a thought. Overall… loved it.

[Kelley Quinn]

Thanks for the review! I guess the thought I had was that I stopped writing because it made it too real to write it down. Her death. But thanks for the suggestion!