Opening and Closing
This is why I’m never bored,
and it’s a story that I think, I believe,
begins in the backyard of my grandpa’s suburban home
with one story and ramps for the motor scooter
I was always jealous I couldn’t ride.
I was four or five.
Had an imaginary friend.
My mother always thought it was a ghost.
I pitched a tennis ball to the air and it landed in green grass.
I felt, not heard, a voice vibrate the words,
“There are people you must be with now.”
I saw air
and grass.
This is my first memory.
I think, I believe.
He didn’t stop moving all at once.
Like most things in life, it started in his hands.
I wasn’t there for the beginning-
for the most unnerving hand jive ever,
and he didn’t stop moving all at once.
He didn’t stop moving,
not even after his jiving hands jerked his car
into a restaurant window.
My mother once told him that one finger
was ‘yes’ and two meant the opposite.
His quaking middle finger went up.
We were always in hospital rooms.
Other than his gnarled middle finger,
he couldn’t talk much, so I didn’t either.
I don’t know. I think, I believe the muteness
came from the warped sense of solidarity
that only a child could muster.
No, I know, I fear, it came from hospital curtains
opening and closing, closing and opening.
Back at the house,
I once walked in
on family members changing his pee bag.
I didn’t know whether to look at his stolid face
or the bag that was full of my favorite color.
And so I sat next to him
on his velvet blanket
whenever I could,
but children aren’t designed
to sit for long,
even if the blanket
feels like home.
One day,
I went to the doorway
of his bedroom and said,
“Can we go now? I’m bored.”
I scanned the room.
My entire family was there and I realized
he was dying.
This is not my first memory,
but it’s the first time I remember,
I think, I believe, no, I know
that guilt hung heavy in my throat.
Airways closing and opening,
opening and closing.
I am never bored
because I don’t get to be bored.
I’m teeming with yellow light,
yellow brighter than his piss bag.
and movement, movement
that doesn’t stop all at once,
doesn’t stop at all.
I’m twenty-three and I
have an imaginary friend
who is thought to be a ghost
by my mother.
I see green velvet
when I seal my eyes.
He smirks at me and says,
“At least you were honest.”
I ask if he’s sure
and get a steady middle finger
in my never-bored face.