Z
Press your palm into the skin of your chest. The sun is so bright, or maybe we only notice during tragedies. You imagine your hand keeping the wind from blowing through you, your fingers covering a clean, raw hole. You are shocked by the brightness of the day. There is a walk behind an abandoned warehouse, belly-shaking laughter in a phone conversation, brief comfort in sharing the air with someone else. But it is time to go to bed and your heart is full of her. Your heart is empty of her. Sometimes you mistake every girl between the ages of 3 and 11 for a childhood reflection and you want to scoop them all up into your arms and perch them on your shoulders and let them see how beautiful, how proud they will be. How un-small they will feel. Sometimes they crowd your chest and you cannot imagine losing one. Sometimes you lose one. Press your hand over your heart. There was brief comfort in sharing the air, of vibrating it in your throats, of creating frequencies. The sun is so bright. Press your palm into your skin. She was not your reflection but you loved her un-small. You were not her but it cradled the girl of you. There was belly-shaking laughter, songs in a hospital room, sharing the air. Press your palm into your skin. You are shocked by brightness. Press harder. Let it hurt. Sometimes you mistake 6 years old for 23 years old for 90 years old. Let it hurt. How small she was, how proud. Perch her on your shoulder. Let her see how beautiful she is. Let it hurt.