A small house with a broken, red back door. The radio station on
in the morning. Cheap cigarettes and stale coffee
by the window. You kept my finger paintings taped to the fridge
and called them art. We had breakfast for dinner.
Five-dollar bills and small teeth tenderly tucked
underneath pillows. Burnt meatloaf and two glasses of milk.
The smell of wood shavings and your gray-blue
leather gloves. Sunday walks sitting on your shoulders, my hands grabbing
your hair to stay warm. Bedtime stories and you giggling in the dark.
Stuffed bras, red lipsticks, and painted black nails. I remember
your nervous laughter when you gave me the sex talk. Movie nights
and truffle and butter popcorn on a brown, beat-up couch.
Finding your blood in the bathroom sink. Doctors, nurses, and words
I don't understand. Wishing I still had my old stuffed bear
with the patched-up leg. Pillows soaked with tears.
Pills, pills, pills. Tidy hospital food trays and sterile sheets.
How terrified I was to hear your voice
in the middle of the night. Your bloodshot eyes. Holding hands
while we fell asleep.
Someone presses a small, silver cross into my hand. I shake
my head, eyes welling up. There are casseroles stacked
on every kitchen surface. Your name is whispered
over and over. Lilies, carnations, and roses are everywhere,
and you are nowhere in sight.
Andrea Maxine Recto is a Spanish-Filipino poet living in Manila. Her work has appeared in the Santa Clara Review and ONE ART, with more forthcoming in the Long River Review and elsewhere.
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