I have cried all yesterday and all today. I took an allergy pill to clear up my eyes for the dissertation proposal defense. Then I went back to crying. I cried for that 1974 video, I cried for your 25 year old faces- my GOD how can anyone's parents look so young. And I cried for me.
I'm not a pretty cryer. Mary Ingalls on Little House On The Prairie, now SHE was a beautiful cryer. But I sob until I hiccup and break out in rashy blotches. I can only see through slits in my eyes. I get that puffy eye thing from my mother.
I found an orphaned space through the grainy film where nothing exists but me and my pigtails, my newborn sister, and the merry-go-round. I don't understand where the two of you went- what crevices of the mind you crawled into and decorated the walls and put on some records and made yourselves at home and goddamn-who-cares who's out there knocking on the door.
YOU died at quarter to midnight on a Friday and the funeral home van backed up to the front porch and wheeled your body outside. Unceremoniously, as they say.
YOU folded yourself up until you were the perfect size to fit yourself inside your mind and you slid into those mazes where no one could ever hope to follow and it was warm and quiet and you withered away from the outside in.
And goddamn guess who's knocking at the door now?