Still Here
“Do you remember this place?”
Of course she did.
It was our summer getaway, our after school paradise. How could she forget? Redwoods lined the trail, their woolly bark snagged on the limber trunks of unwelcome eucalyptus. We’d sit on a bench made from a pair of unlucky stumps, suckling honey sticks and sipping fresh squeezed lemonade bought from the general store down the road. Shadows danced across the sandy soil beneath our feet. I tried to reimagine it as best I could but it’s hard with only a few crayola crayons and inkless ballpoint pens. I’m hardly an artist, but I think she remembered. I think...
“How about this one?”
Of course she did.
Our tree house. Her house. She lived in a forest of light where the leaves were always painted gold by the sun. She would tell me about the magic of this place. She would spin tales of the faerie hunts in day and the howling mists at night. Between each tale, we’d take a break to gather ripe blackberries from the bushes planted snug against an overgrown fence. Shirts plump and filled with bittersweet loot, we’d scurry back to the safety of our scrap plank fortress before the Ground Gnomes ate our toes.
Do you remember this place?
I wanted to ask but the words never came. Of course she did. How could she forget? The broken glass still smothered the gravel, baked in the heat of the sun. It was impossible to tell rock from shard, shard from rock. The smoke from the engine was thick and nauseating. It forced me to realize what had happened. Her hand was on the hood. Only her hand. I didn’t want to draw this.
“She’s still here,” I whispered.
“Of course I am,” a voice replied. “Someone’s gotta’ clean up this mess.”
The nurse had been weaving in and out of my room for hours now, folding my clothes and rearranging my belongings, putting them here and there and back into the places she thought they best belonged. “She’s still here,” I repeated.
“Oh,” the nurse sighed. “This again? She’s gone, honey. Don’t you remember the accident? It’s why you’re here.”
“I’m not here,” I argued. “She’s still here.” I repeated myself again and again. “She’s still here. She’s still here. She’s still here. She’s still here.”
I never noticed the nurse leave the room until she returned, and with company.
---
“Do you remember this place?”
Of course she did.
It was our third time in solitary confinement this week. No drawing could do justice the loneliness of this small, vacuous space. A blank sheet of paper would suffice. But I’m not alone... right?
“Do you remember this place?” I asked again. “Do you remember this place?”
And again.
“Do you remember this place?”
And again.
“Do you remember this place?”
Of course she did.
How could she forget?
She’s still here.
She's always here.