If that’s you, in a different bedroom,
In a city with different night-sounds,
If that’s you, glaring sightless until the
Ceiling creates the footbridge,
If that’s you I hear, heels clicking on stone,
Or wood, or iron, or slipping over muddy turf,
If that’s you, tasting the drop of
Whiskey left in my glass, licking the sharp feather
Of desire on my shoulder,
If that’s you, with snow on your lip
And word-pearls in your pocket,
Then I’ll let it be;
My cat will leap over your reckless ghost,
Believing he was tricked,
And land soundless on the bedroom floor.
Author: cynthiawhamill
Day 29: Alive
I spent some time today watching a movie about a man whose plane had crashed in the Arctic. He was alone for days, then rescued the co-pilot of a search helicopter who was injured and hardly regained consciousness.
It was, for me, a horror movie.
Instead of a hatchet killer, the horror was the specter of profound human fragility. To emerge from the plane shell, clumsy and frail as a just-hatched bird, the sun never setting, wind never abating. There’s frostbite and bears. Dwindling fuel. Each frozen step (or the alone-ness) asking, “how badly do you want to stay alive?”
Day 28: Portrait
I can play it cool when I’m handing Kai the Blizzard he ordered through the takeout window, or when I’m secretly checking him out from across our Biology lab. But being paired up with him for the portrait unit for our Art elective isn’t the same.
It’s because I’m allowed to look at him. Really look. Study the shape of his eyebrows, memorize the slant of his neck, count the freckles that are only visible close up. And he has to sit still, quiet, and let me.
I wish my hand would quit shaking. I wish a lot of things.
Day 27: Language Barrier
Living with a teen-aged girl feels like an immersion foreign language class. Words are introduced through normal conversation and soon, through repetition and context, one catches on to their meaning and usage. “Salty” is a word I particularly enjoy; my husband is good at using “ratchet” and “savage” unironically.
“Main character” is a term that’s harder to parse. On car trip, while listening to an atmospheric playlist: “This is main character vibes.” A cute, cool girl waiting in the parking lot: “She’s the main character.” I get it, but don’t. Confidence? Groundedness? I catch a whiff, but then it’s gone.
Day 26: Glossy (ALT)
The library in winter smells like our front hall closet,
leather shoes and coats that have dried from rain.
But the magazines in their shiny plastic covers
Crackle like summer with pink lipstick,
Electric blue cars, and sideways glances.
The one I want is as heavy as granny’s Sears Catalog.
I take it to the corner table near Large Print,
Under my arm the way uncles carry bibles.
I flip, study, dog-ear. Every shoulder,
Every neck, every matte mouth and merciless incisor,
Every wool, fur, and drape comforts me.
I’ll choose one to fold, like a ticket,
Into my pocket.
Day 25: Seventeen
My best friend got a black Mustang convertible for her seventeenth birthday.
“Mustang Sally,” my dad called her from then on. She was the most beautiful person I’d ever seen up close. I wanted to touch her impossibly smooth cheek, twist her curly coffee-colored hair between my fingers. She’d pick me up and we’d go for ice cream, the movies, or the diner; we’d come home stinking of cigarettes even though we’d ride with the top down all the way.
The radio played Skid Row or Sting, and she’d sing off-key, her one endearing imperfection, crooked notes trailing behind us.
Day 24: Funeral
“Let’s get out of here, huh? I need some air,” Sean says as he brushes by me, loosening his tie.
“But …” I gesture to the living room full of people dressed in black, eating finger food and cookies. He’s already halfway through the kitchen, on his way to the back door. I catch up in time to see him trade his beer bottle for a set of keys. He tosses them to me.
“You’re driving.”
He leads us to his pickup, and I don’t argue. We’re seventeen again, climbing into the cab, hearing her engine purr, leaving the world behind.
Day 23: Madalyn
My mother’s mother was the oldest of four sisters. She was a mean card player and ate popcorn and candy bars for dinner. She never told me she loved me, but wept as we drove to the airport.
She called me “sis” when she wanted to get my attention. “Sis, either pay attention or don’t play,” when I’d goof off at Rummy. “You’re tracking sand in here, sis,” when I didn’t rinse off my feet from the beach. And our last phone call, when I told her I’d gotten engaged. “Don’t get married, sis.” A cough. “Men aren’t worth it.”
Day 22: Fitting
Sara’s hands glide across the tops of my shoulders and tug the fabric of the sleeves. Juliet’s Nurse’s dress does fit better now that she’s altered it to accommodate my long arms.
“That feel okay?” she asks around the pins she holds between her lips. Her brown eyes study the bodice, the waist, the cuffs, while I study the downy hair at the back of her neck that didn’t make it into her ponytail.
“Yeah, it’s fine,” I whisper, then clear my throat. “Fine.”
I’m weightless as she turns me, my thighs heating, praying she’ll find something else to fix.
Day 21: Bridge
A friend of mine died of cancer in November. She lived in my chat apps; we shared texts, photos, and voice memos, but never met in person.
This morning, a video popped up on TikTok of a girl playing bass along to Duran Duran’s “Rio.” After a ten second debate with myself, I sent the link to my dead friend. It was a tiny celebration, the easy, ecstatic talent of the girl playing a song we both loved.
Twelve-year-old me sang along to MTV, alone in the basement; almost forty years later, the song dances across the river to her.
Cynthia Hamill 