The Passed Note Issue 6 February 2018 - Page 31

Sarah Clayville

A Forced Eviction

Suddenly our space is no longer ours,

and I’m cleaning out the locker we once shared

because the year is over, and we are over, and

it’s too embarrassing to let the janitors

throw away the mementos of our relationship.

A chemistry book looks innocent enough except

between the pages we pressed my corsage petals and

a speeding ticket you got racing to my house when I

didn’t know where we stood or if I should be standing

by myself. And a sketch of my eyeball and your eyeball.

We kept a closet of our dates stuffed in the bottom,

layered the way we let each other pick the places and

the times we were together. First your wrestling sweatshirt

that I wore, then my scarf that you tucked inside your pocket,

and socks that could be anyone’s.

The locker’s empty and the hallway crowds have vanished.

When I turn around I expect to see you sitting by the

cardboard box, labeling his and hers with the black sharpie

you always carry just in case there’s a space you can make

better with your drawings the way we made each other better.

I’d like to say the box is what’s heavy, but I lift it easily

and instead struggle with the memories and the questions.

I’m not sure exactly why I said goodbye or asked you to

stop doodling my name in strange little corners of the world.

I just know that I had to take it back and write it on my own.