Dating : Untitled

The Moon in my hands

As I slept, my eyes reversed, into the dreams of cotton stars bleeding in the sky. I waited patiently. Twenty years had become nothing more than a patchwork of desiccated moons planted and then forgotten. Every bone swallowed the other, until I became an apparition mumbling at the wall.

I thought I was older yesterday. The muffled sounds of sitcoms were traveling from the living room, sneaking underneath the fissure of my locked door. I stood up too quickly. Lightheaded, I fell to my mattress and waited a few minutes. I hadn’t eaten or drank anything in a few days. I was hiding from the world again.

I needed water. I slid against the walls of the hallway, trying to get to the bathroom without being noticed. I cupped the faucets water to my mouth, its cool metallic flavor sifting through my throat. When I quietly stepped into the hallway, my head apologizing to the ceramic squares I felt a shock of human contact. It was my mom, her shoulder sharp and mournful. It hurt to speak, “sorry”.

I was back in my bedroom, listening to the laughter of my mother. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, I could see her face scrunched up like a Childs. It was thick and heavy like syrup on pancakes. It sounded like love sewing itself into our hearts. My father sat next to her, also laughing, a rumbling low laughter, like a storm of waves settling into the earth.

I am the only child in the house right now. My siblings are living life. College for one, dropping out of high school and working on cars for the other. I am imagining, dreaming, sleeping…

I am working in a hospital, taking shallow steps through midnights weakness. I felt the weight of others sickness and misfortune in my hands every night. I let sadness blow me away, into the emptiness of waiting rooms. I listened to the far away sounds of commercials and nurses, as daylight gathered in the windows I could not fathom.

At least I could still dream. They were hazy and distant dreams, but they were still moving. They couldn’t breathe in public. They were mine to hide away, and useful on the worst days. My lips turn to stone, and I let my blood breathe slightly. Out in the open air, now stained with regret.

In the evening I began to wave away the light. I swallowed so many days, and froze inside of the depths of gravity and time. I held onto the doors and walls, I slept for days. The only thing left behind would be the red sunlight in my wrists.

At the dining room table my mother and father twirl their spaghetti and slice their meatballs with a fork. It is a Sunday. I woke up to the smell of garlic sautéing in a big silver pot, along with the sweetness of tomato paste. I sit down at the table, curling my toes and looking down. I am always looking down. I try speaking to them. I try to open my mouth, and explain how I have been feeling for so long now. They keep eating. I walk over to them and tell them everything.

I wake up with my mom’s crocheted blanket tangled around my right leg, my dad’s silver necklace sweating on my neck. Mary is sweltering in that silver. The blanket is holding the light so gently. I am in their bed, blue flowers blooming across the body of their blanket. They are gone.

© Nicole Plaia