I remember how your room smelled.
The food in your house was as stale as the conches we bought from Food City for fifty cents a loaf
And I can still feel you: small body wet and sweaty, dripping water from the kitchen sink.
Dripping your youth like perspiration from a day in the hot sun
And I remember the way your breath smelled like decaying quietly, and how, even then, we didn’t know you were already gone.
Now and then, I think of you as you truly were: lightning and thunder, lone storm cloud on a sunny day.
And your muscles tensed when I pulled you in for a hug, but I didn’t let go, you didn’t ask me to.
And I squeezed you tight, because, even though I couldn’t really shake the sense into you, maybe I could love it in somehow.
And then I think of those adolescent back ally hangouts, stealing cigarettes from my mom, coughing, and laughing, and feeling dizzy-happy.
The ghost of a slushy stained our lips sweet.
Tobacco made them bitter and we felt dangerous, and serious, and all grown-up.
When you did grow up, I think you kept craving that feeling while we all let it slip away.
That’s why I’m still here, stuck to the ground
And you've gone somewhere deep below it in the soft earth, where I hope to meet you again sometime.
And I asked you, “Are you here, or am I dreaming?”
You pulled me in for one final embrace and my muscles tensed, but you didn't let me go because you knew that's what I needed, and I didn’t ask you to.
“I’m here,” you said before I woke up, dripping sweat and the reminisce of a childhood spent in the desert sun
I hope it’s warm where you are, and I hope that people treat you kindly, because I know you never got enough of that when you were here, and that's what you really needed.
Now it seems you’ve found your peace, so maybe it all works out in the end:
Loving the sense into you with soft words and gentle touches.
Beating the sense into you with angry fists
And finally, digging the sense into you as we pushed back the soil where you lay, letting it coat you like a sad truth and a blanket.
Sonora Cari (She/Her/Hers) is a young teacher and writer from Arizona, who currently lives in Seattle. She works with her students to help them create narratives and stories through artwork and movement. She spent most of her childhood writing silly stories and poems for fun but took a long break and is newly back on the scene. Sonora's poetry focuses on narrative, place, and storytelling. As her prose and style develop, Sonora hopes to use her poetry to advocate for marginalized groups in her home of Tucson, Arizona. Instagram is @sonorasaurus.
Painting by. Manuel Álvarez Bravo (Parabola Óptica, 1931)
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