While talking to your doctor about the lithium’s side effects, I hear you emptying the dishwasher without me asking.
When I flip back through this life,
fifty years from now, shrunken
in a hospital bed, or tomorrow, laying
in the wreckage of our minivan
it will be your face I see.
The printout from the
ultrasound, your thumb
in your mouth, lips
pursed, eyes squeezed shut.
Your face, purple
as the labor and delivery nurse slapped
your feet, your heartbeat
slowing, the doctor slicing and
grabbing, tearing us in two.
Your face, a reverse line
of you shrinking from man to boy
to baby,
to belly.
It will be your
face, months and then years
the dimple on your left cheek
when you laugh, your spiky hair
the way you hold your hamster
with a glove so you can love her
even with prickly toes, up
to last night when you tried the Pad Thai
despite the peanuts on top
because I asked you, please.
Your face this morning
even when everything in this world
is monstrous and I could hand you
back the knife I took away
and locked in the cupboard above
the refrigerator, even then
your face is what I see.
And what I hate is this world
the way the neighbors shake
their heads, how bright
the lights are to you
how the guitar strings screech
when I switch chords and you
run from the room.
What I hate is how
often you try to unlock the cupboard.
I emptied the dishwasher,
you come in to tell me.
I’m sorry.
Hannah Grieco is a writer in Washington, DC. Find her online at www.hgrieco.com or on Twitter @writesloud.
