I woke to thirteen raging voice messages, twenty-
seven abandoned calls on my part. You just called to tell
me you loved me, thinking you were Wonder with
a voice like no other. You’ve neglected to welcome your
dose of Lithium once again.
I’ve studied Sylvia and Anne, beyond
the grave. I’ve studied you in the flesh, in my dreams, and
in bottles of medication flushed down grandma’s
toilet, Circa 1993. You spoke to god that day. I watched from the
sidelines in my Barbie nightgown and miss-angled
bangs as the freckled paramedic, emulating your Happy Days
crush Richie Cunningham, took you away. Note to self: Never allow
Khaleh Rachel inches near you with scissors in tow.
It was half past ten, waiting in the lobby sleepy-eyed, I laid upright
wrapped in Khaleh Farideh’s warmth. I looked up as she stroked
my curly black hair, a saintly vision in white struck my sight.
I ran to you, your hospital gown smelling of your peculiar
psychosis, your I.V dripping morphine to bore stiff the emotions of
a widowed mind, twenty-one years and counting. You gave me
a bag of rainbow-sprinkled cookies, a pencil topped with a heart
eraser, and a hug. You leaned in and whispered, I‘ll never die. These
voices won’t allow me to.
Lay vibrant and positive upon a garden of selfish
flowers, I say. Warm and youthful nostalgia, life before
becoming the esteemed doctor who fell a casualty to
domestic abuse. Though it still runs through your blood,
the dictator of your marital incarceration is gone. Those
around you arbitrate, knowing nothing. You know
everything. You know the truth, imaginary or not. Fault rests
in their futile judgments, not in your rapturous years.
Memories of you are bullet-proof, calling to my comprehension
your accomplishments, vaccinated from any assassination,
not your illness, despite the anti-mediocre thoughts it inspired.
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