Souvenirs

The death of a parent creates something that slowly creeps in just as you are beginning to sleep away the pain of freshly dug earth.

And that is fear.

Every time my mother leaves the house, I panic just quietly enough for Rashka to glance up at me, and no one else.

This morning she hit her head and told me goodnight before leaving. I drove to work with my hand clenched on my forehead.

There will be two phases in my life. One with my mother, and one without.

I am dealing with the silent phone of my father. I am too young to have both of my connections to the earth stop calling.

So I have come home for the summer. And for the first time in years, I relish the ability to not be completely on my own.

Sometimes at night though, my brain flutters like it did when I spent the night unexpectedly at my grandparents, and the dusty toys hanging up in the shower gently reminded me to enjoy my final evening.

Tracing patterns in the dust of childhood gives me a fleeting contentment I will never forget, and makes me wonder if this fear is simply my body trying to memorize.