As I gaze over the dusty computer desk,
Past the over-turned cup of pens and the paw
Prints left by Regan, I can hear you, muffled like my ears
Are full of wax. “Remember when Militza and Hank slept
Over just for the week-end. We got so bored we had
To walk back to their House after a few hours, drinking
Suttor Home the whole way.”
I run my hands through the rumpled hair on my head.
My rigid fingers that once held you now reach toward the blue
Ceiling of the office that was ours,
Trying to break though the plaster membrane to meet
Our bedroom, empty.
The words stare at me, shout at me, deride me.
Bolded, underlined, italicized, 72-point, caps locked,
Times New Roman font, like road kill: You don’t want to
See it, and yet you cannot look away. “Then you and I spent that
Thursday watering the back yard, making it immaculate,
And planting that lettuce garden because your brother told you to.”
You tell me to make it personal; the book will be better that way.
“Let go of your secrets. No one will know they’re true.”
But I’ll know. I’ll know and it will remind me of you. You, Hank,
Militza, my brother, lettuce, late nights, cheap,
Jug wine, the walk we took every night. The
Walk you had to beg me to take, to that god-awful hill
With the dead plants and sharp boulders. I would give anything
To take that walk with you, one more time. With anyone.
My cursor blinks.
Artist: Cassidy Kavanagh
School: North Allegheny
For Creative Writing. PostSecret Prompt