The Voice Issue 30: July/August 2017 - Page 30

-Angelaweasley, Burlington, VT

30

I remember a house.

Or maybe I remember part of a house.

I can see a few rooms, and the darkness

leering in the corners.

Sometimes when I remember hard enough

I can see a bedroom.

My bedroom.

I remember a park.

Or maybe I remember part of a park.

I can see a few trees, and the darkness

leering in the corners.

Sometimes when I remember hard enough

I can see a bench.

My bench.

I remember a paper store.

Or maybe I remember part of a paper store.

I can see a few pieces of card stock, and the darkness

leering in the corners.

Sometimes when I remember hard enough

I can see a notebook.

My notebook.

I remember a father.

Or maybe I remember part of a father.

I can see a few pieces of a life, and the darkness

leering in the corners.

Sometimes when I remember hard enough

I can see your smile.

My smile.

My mother likes to tell me that I am nothing like my father.

She doesn't say it out loud

but I can hear it in her speeches

about how I am

outspoken, kind, and just so ...

lovable.

My father likes to tell me that I am nothing like my mother.

He doesn't say it out loud

but I can hear it in his eyes,

the way he looks at me,

the way he doesn't look at her.

--

You know the feeling

when you close your eyes at night

and it's almost the same as when you keep them open?

Like when my dad leaves.

It's almost the same,

but it's still missing something.

I Partly Remember Who I Am Not At Night