Months To Years Spring 2018 Months To Years Spring 2018 - Page 42

Slipping Through The Cracks By Kimberly Nichols He called it The Death Tour 2001 and I was another in doing, and what kind of artwork I was currently making. I a string of guests who had stopped their normal lives to would hear my words stumble out to him, caught in a slew travel to the Midwest to spend some time with him before of taffy-tongued replies that always sounded hard like he died. He knew it was coming. Half a year prior to his bricks thudding on a wooden floor. On our last call he told exit, after he started to fall down exhausted in the normal me I had better hurry if I ever wanted to see him again. I course of each day, he called my sister and me to tell us he hopped on a red-eye flight to Minnesota with my daugh- had cancer. We instantly set weekly appointments to speak ter who he’d only seen twice in her decade’s worth of life.  on the phone and catch up on the details of our lives as if suddenly it were very important.  Death lends a strange pink pall to a person’s hurt locker. When you see a man you’ve loved since birth standing My father and I had been relative strangers for many in front of you with a baseball sized tumor sticking out years: when I was 12, he’d moved halfway across the of his throat you forget the anger you’ve buried inside United States with his new wife, a toddler, and another and, instead, all that happens is a rushing flood of good baby on the way. Now, at 28, I was spiraling outward into memories from when you were tight-knit and in love. My a life of my own. Oftentimes I would stand in the shower encyclopedic brain was bursting with viewfinder-like slides and cry alone, where no one could hear me, missing the of a childhood: me hunched down in his drag car illegally man who had been my closest friend pre-puberty. On our while he raced, or on the back of his motorcycle going up newly revived weekly phone calls, we would tiptoe awk- and down the concrete ditches of Southern California, or wardly around the gap in my heart where he had been, the hours we would spend making mixed tapes from the and then had not bee [\[XYۈ[ZH]\^H[ܛ[]]\XY[[ۜ[BH\][^H[^YX\[]Y\\^HHݙY][H\ۈY\X[X]\B