Pressed against glass, face down, born again in the cloud. Another memory retained for…what?
“Marianne loves Bobby. 12th Grade. 17 Years old.”
That lasted nine months before ending in bruises, abortion, and divorce. Yet, the photos remain, reminders of erstwhile lovers and friends, a past suffused in shade. Sadness the emotion as album pages flutter by, the memories that began in happiness later viewed from the bottom of the bottle, the worm eating away at her insides. Alcoholic binges interrupted by short periods of frantic cleaning, crying, obsessive arranging, freakish smiles of false hope. Depression.
Photos should be sorted by categories of Happy and Sad. The sad pile thick, heavy, least looked into, covered in a patina of fresh blood. The happy pile tear-stained, hope-filled, covered in a patina of drunken vomit.
Why do we want to remember the past? Cavemen started the trend, Italian Masters renewed it, Polaroid made it easy.
Etch-etch, brush-brush, snap-snap. Voila! You’ll live forever.
She died naked, face-up, a pain patch over her heart. A broken heart. A broken heart that didn’t need the pain patch to kill her.
I don’t want to look at her photo because I don’t want to see her pain. I want to remember her before the pain began, when we were little, her genuine smile when she fell in love, when I taunted her with “Marianne loves Bobby, Marianne loves Bobby.”
She called me Honey because she thought I was the only one who loved her.
Writers Envy 
Reblogged this on Anna Dobritt — Author.
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Thank you, Anna ❤
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So brutally honest, Will.
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Thank you, Tom. She would have been 66 this year, instead of 58 forever.
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Will, this feels so different from what you usually write. As always, you have created vivid images that stay with your reader. Nicely written.
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Thank you, John. This is very different for me, very ugly and angry. It’s taken me almost seven years to write about my sister Marianne. Six years older than me, we were closer in spirit than with my other three sisters. She was 58 and a recovering alcoholic when she died of an accidental overdose in 2012. I don’t know what made her turn to alcohol, but I guess it doesn’t really matter now. She was beautiful and vibrant, strawberry blonde, and kept her freckles. I’ve been scanning all her photos and reliving the past. I’ll make albums with her photos and give them to my nephew someday when he forgives his mom and asks for her forgiveness. He will.
I miss hearing her call me honey.
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Thank you, Will. I knew there was a story there, but didn’t want to pry. I think most of us (maybe all of us?) have something that we struggle with. It wonderful that you are holding on to the best memories of your sister and will one day share them all with your nephew. Thank you for sharing your heart with us.
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Mind blowing ! As one reads the poem it feels like we’re in it . Beautifully written
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Thank you, Rutika!
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