These are the things that have died

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: September 30, 2018

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Submitted: September 30, 2018

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These are the things that have died:

 

two small dogs, only one purebred, five

phones, three grandparents, the bedside

lamp so night came at dusk and never left,

one preschool bunny, one snowman

hot cocoa mug smashed on vinyl, our song,

four secret languages, one video game

character who fell into lava, one crappy

point-and-shoot with a spot on the lens like a bullet

wound in every picture, two family cars, the

first Harry Potter book that drowned in the bathtub,

the bathtub, one rotting hamster found

upside down with mouth strained toward a

three-weeks-empty water bottle, one blueberry bush,

one marriage, five pairs of great jeans, one

Taylor Swift CD, twenty-eight pairs of headphones

and at least a thousand hairbands, two stone age

computers, one children’s bible, the best climbing tree

in the state of Washington, six stocks of bamboo,

four novel ideas, three memory cards and

thirty-three thousand photos and the happy days

they froze in time, my father, one piano,

the last black ballpoint pen, the music,

five best friends, three single stiletto heels,

an indoor garden made entirely of fake plants,

my mother, too, and the baby in her belly with only

the stub of a thumb and a mouth that never spoke,

one dream catcher, one corsage and the matching

boutonniere, dried and kept for old time’s sake,

one empty picture frame, the poetry,

the clock stopped at 9:09, the smoke detector in the

bedroom six times, the old woman down the street,

the stoplight never fixed, two left blinkers, one

route 269 bus driver, one large television

my father bought for the eyes of the coworkers

that never showed up, one old pair of hiking boots

mud-logged from the riverbed, at least five ghost towns

on 101, the last red rose from the only bouquet ever

received, each voice that has said hello, and the bees

in the nest in the eave above my window, the last one

quivering cold on the sill, begging me to let go.

 


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