22994

on day one

you take a deep breath

and scream.

your mother is laughing,

your father is smiling,

and the nurse is holding you

while thinking about her next break.

you won’t remember

the musty smell of the hospital hallways

or the saltines that broke in your mother’s hands

but i do.

i will remember every moment

as if i had photographed them.

on day 284, nine months old,

you scoot around the living room

while the cat watches you from the bookshelf.

someone is shouting upstairs,

and i thank God that you don’t yet understand

what they are saying.

something shatters

and you giggle.

day 1523, four years old,

your father slams the front door for the last time.

mommy tells you he’s on vacation

or that he’s visiting grandma

but even then you realize that something’s wrong

because half the things in the house are missing

and there’s a bouquet of roses on the dining table.

the scent of cigarettes fades fast

but not fast enough

for you to forget.

you’re 4003 days old, almost eleven,

the first time someone tells you you’re useless.

you’ve never heard that before

but you know it’s not a good thing.

you come back home and cry to me,

your tears fall hard and fast,

and i am the only one who listens.

there’s a romance in empty rooms

and poetry in silence

that you discover at 4891 days

or thirteen years

and you seem to find solace

among the ghosts that haunt your mind.

on day 6570, your eighteenth birthday,

your mother and stepdad want you to celebrate with them

but you tell them that you can’t

because you’re busy falling in love.

i want to remind you

that you’re afraid of heights.

you’re in college for 1400 days with breaks in between

and you work for another 11,026.

and then you’re 22,994 days old,

a day away from 63 years.

there’s a plate of strawberries on the table,

cut to look like flowers.

a book is open in your lap,

and a pen rests in the crease between the pages.

i sit beside you.

my eyes have already worn out

and i can no longer make out the difference between b and d

but I can still see the cat that perches on the bookshelf

and the saltines in the red glass bowl

and the greying silver band around your ring finger.

your life has been etched in wrinkled skin and aching joints

and it is a story that you do not care to tell

but i have been there for all 22,994 days,

551,856 hours,

or 33,111,360 minutes.

if you ever forget,

i can remind you.