Family (grief trigger warning)

When I sit

at 2 in the morning

eating a family size

pack of m&ms

it almost feels forbidden:

to eat so much

it almost makes me sick,

to think so fast

my body lines blur,

to be too deep in it,

that messy glory wasteland

with her howling angels,

to stay up so late

I forget what month it is,

to remember

what family feels like,

all 5 of us,

sitting at the picnic table

in the fall

when the wind whips

around you,

listening to NPR

on the radio,

laughing together

as the leaves

fall down

mixing with the

gravel and sunshine.

How could I have known

that even though I loved the snow,

the move to cold Minnesota

was the start

of the end of family.

I cut my hair off

at 3 in the morning

with a rusty pair

of old scissors

that my nana used

to cut crisp and neat with

when I was young,

and now scraping clumps

of hair off my head

with dull pieces of metal

the summer after

my dad died

and I missed him

and my mom

yelped at the sight

when I came down

to breakfast

in the morning.

And later,
I smoked 6 cigarettes

outside in the depths of the dark

having paced round

the hospital room for so long

I was forming a trail

of sunken floor

with my heavy feet,

waiting for my twin flame

to wake up after

his first brain surgery

as the doctors

ripped out as much

of the tumor as

they could

even then knowing

that this was a road

which would end,

in tears,

and for me

my worst fears being right,

doing it all,

running round and round

so as to feel nothing,

sitting at the window,

looking out at the red bird

perched in her tree branches

outside my bedroom

at 11 in the morning

when I held Jordan’s hand

and whispered

over and over:

I love you. I love you.

Can you hear me? I love you,

until he died in my hands

with a sigh.