A Brief History of Life and Death

Your dad tells the story of your Fillimont hike when you were barely eight. In the picture, your face is pudgy and round like a clock. In my memory, you whisk away with each passing minute. 

You told me that/ you loved me/ for the first time/ in the woods/ while you were/ sprawled across my stomach/ and then you looked up at me/ I surprised myself/ by telling you that/ I loved you back.

When you were born, you weighed ten pounds, and they told me that your skin was yellow for a couple of days.

Your face always/ had etches of the morning/ whenever you smiled/ and I think/ maybe/ that I might have fallen/ in love with you/ when I saw you on the beach/ with a pipe sticking out/ of your mouth/ and a rainbow shawl draped/ around your neck.

We danced in the park at midnight. One night, I went to kiss your cheek, but my lips accidentally landed on yours. 

You held/ my body/ in place/ and told me/ nothing can happen between us/ why?/ because it won't work out (I love you too much and can't have you just to lose you).

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Your mom slept in your bed a few days after it happened, and the bedsheets still smell like you. 

She left me alone/ in your room/ for a while/ so I could look through your things/ when I found the ring/ you never got to give me. 

Mama whispered in Russian, do not take it. It's mine, I told her.

The lights in the room were/ shut off/ and the air smelled/ sickly and stale/ and I kept picturing you/ standing/ living/ in every corner/ of your bedroom.

I tried on your old cowboy boots just for the fun of it; they gave my bare feet blisters. Your dad would joke that for a kid who never wore any shoes, his closet was filled with them.

Your room kept/ your last keepsakes/ a leftover trashbag/ and a few empty water bottles/ just where you had left them/ the night before.

I cried when I laid down in your bed, shrouding myself in your duvet. I wonder how they wrapped you. Are you as warm as I am?

Your pillow/ held the dent/ of your large head/ and the slight coils of your curls/ were scattered/ across the linen/ your kippah had a strand of/ your brown hair/ and it reminded me of your/ innocence. 

I am quick to forget the features of your face, but every so often I picture you staring at me with a blank expression.

The thought of/ touching another/ terrifies me/ and to say/ that I love you/ almost feels/ wrong.

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But I love you, dammit. And I miss your smile and your face and keeping you alive in my memories. And all of the things you gave me when you touched my chest. I keep your memory in the mosquito bite scars that trail up and down my left leg.

When the sky/ settles/ and fades away/ I hate you the most/ for leaving me/ behind/ I trail behind/ the wings of your ghost/ and it kills me.

But now I sleep with your rainbow scarf, the one you bought by the boardwalk after getting lunch with your friends a year ago. It's colorful and wrinkled, but it doesn't smell like you anymore.

Three squeezes/ of my hand/

I love you/ I love you/

I love you.