Monthly Archives: February 2016

Six Years (The Value of Time)

It’s sunny outside today on the streets of New York, the kind of light so warm it has its own unnamed color. It’s sunny, and you will never see it. I imagine you though, as you would be now, eyes of greenish-gray that stare into me with a wisdom beyond your years; favorite color of blue, the blue of jean overalls like the favorite pair you have that you always refuse to take off; so smart that you skipped from pre-K to first grade because you were just that advanced. You remind me of me, or, rather, I imagine you do. You will never see it, you will never be any of it, and that’s okay—you were meant to do more somewhere else, and I was meant to be here.

I expected your skin when you were born to be like paper, that thin flimsy yet rough texture that cuts you if you touch it wrong; it wasn’t—your skin was like almost like mine with its peach and rosey blood hues, but marred with a translucent quality of never having seen the sun. Hair coated your head in wisps and slight curls, almost brown but not quite, so thin (like mine) that I could see the skin beneath. Everything about you looked normal, from the top of your head to the tip of your toes, and it occurred to me that occasionally time just stops us where we are, that we look the same when we die. At least at first. They put you in the fridge to keep you as you were, preserve you, in case I wanted to see you again. I didn’t. I wanted to remember you warm and pink, not cold and blue; I wanted to remember you as alive even though you weren’t.

Growing up, I was always afraid of death and the dead. When I came home from work to find my goldfish Herman floating in a u-shape above the pretty purple castle inside of his glass bowl on top of my television, I called my boyfriend to come and scoop him out for me. When my grandma’s dog Max died, I had to cover it in three different blankets so that I wouldn’t feel the body as I helped her put it in the car to take it to be cremated. I couldn’t touch them or be involved with any of it, because I couldn’t accept that they were dead. You were different though, your tiny body still somewhat warm from being inside of me, stiff from being dead for many hours, at least 22, but as many as 30—we would never know exactly. I felt like I was floating above you, like it wasn’t real, and I tried to grasp every detail: the way your fists were clenched and how hard it was for me to wrap your dead fingers around mine, fingers just long enough for playing an instrument, the way your head listed just slightly towards my chest in a way that made you seem alive. It didn’t seem right that you could be there, that you could whole and still be dead. It didn’t seem right at all. The only detail that I can’t recall, six years later, were the color of your eyes. I will never know this about you. It seems important, somehow, like a fact that I should know, and it kills me that I don’t. A mother should know what color her son’s eyes are. Were. Holding you gave new meaning to the word dead weight; your four pounds in my arms felt like the world and the air at the same time, like you were everything and nothing and here and gone, because you were—here, and gone. It is the gone that we don’t expect, that we don’t take pause to consider.

I’ve begun to forget your face. It’s harder every day to remember what you looked like, and so I write it down; I never head your voice, your laugh, and I never will, but I can commit what I saw to memory when it’s on the page. You were burned, your remains put into a little red satin box the shape of a heart that fit into my palm, and you were later scattered somewhere unknown to me. Your things are gone; you are gone; I have no part of you left, nothing physical to hold, to see. I have no proof of your existence, only memories of what I’ve lost, of what I’ve learned.

What I learned from you was the value of time. There is never enough. If I want something, I need to go for it. Get it. Take it. If I want to be the top, I need to rise to it. If I want to climb the mountain, I need to climb it. There is no time. There is never enough time. My roommate has a beautiful clock tattooed from her hip up through her ribs, with hands that spin and extend and get lost as they turn; I imagine that time is like that, that we spin and extend and get lost. Because of you though, with your beautiful piano fingers and your chubby little legs, I am not lost. I will not lose.

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We Were

My cat was there one minute and gone the next. Legit. One night, she was running up and down the hallway chasing The Great Red Dot, and the next she was gone. She had a tumor inside her that exploded, and there was nothing that could be done. It’s a metaphor for life, in a way. A bomb goes off and things are never the same after that.


I’m sitting on my bed, sinking into the comfort of my two inches of memory foam beneath three fluffy blankets, the Roku remote in my right hand and a hard cider in my left. There’s a new movie on Lifetime Movie Club today, an older flick entitled “We Were the Mulvaneys.” Beginning in the late 70s, the movie (and as I later found out, the novel by Joyce Carol Oates) centers on a seemingly perfect family that crumbles into oblivion after their daughter, Marianne, is raped by an upperclassman in the parking lot during a high school dance. Marianne’s father is so disgusted when she refuses to press charges against her attacker that he send his daughter away to live in a commune; he falls into alcoholism and leaves his wife after they are forced to sell their generations-old farm to pay off their debt. All three of Marianne’s brothers drift away from their mother, and one goes so far as to exact revenge against Marianne’s rapist. At the end of the movie, the father passes away and the family suddenly reunites, twenty years after the assault, to beginning the process of becoming a family again.

Honestly, I’m a big sucker for sexual assault/recovery movies. Call me a glutton for punishment, but I like seeing other people survive so that I know I’m not the only one. In the past, I’ve been drawn to movies where the survivor seeks revenge, movies like “Bound to Vengeance” and “I Spit on Your Grave.” But “We Were the Mulvaneys” is a totally different animal. Marianne does not seek revenge against her attacker or stand up to him in the slightest; she simply disappears—there one day, gone the next.


Every night now when I lay in bed, I find my hand drifting over to the pillow my cat used to sleep on. We were together most nights for sixteen years. She was my best friend. It’s only logical I would reach for her, sometimes. She was there forever, and then she wasn’t. We were always together, and then we weren’t.


“Strange:” Marianne’s brother speaks, “how when a light is extinguished, it’s immediately as if it has never been. Darkness fills in again, complete.” Marianne was extinguished so completely by her father that she almost literally ceased to exist. I think that’s how it happens for a lot of survivors of sexual assault, and I think that’s the reason I identify so strongly with “We Were the Mulvaneys.” Sure, I’ll admit that I love a good revenge turn. But a mistake that many of these movies make is that most survivors simply aren’t that person. We may want to be, but in being that person, we become our attacker and our attacker wins. While Marianne’s aftermath is an extreme, I think it’s an end that many survivors drift towards. 68 percent of rapes never get reported at all, and that’s a current statistic—I can’t imagine what it was like in the late 70s. Things are different now than they were then, and I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.


My cat’s ashes came today via Fedex, a purple tin wrapped in lavender tissue paper in a purple gift bag inside a brown cardboard box, all the empty space in the box stuffed with marketing materials. I cried when I opened the box, but then I built a shrine on my dresser—purple tin with a black cat tea light candle holder on either side and a clear crystal cat in the front, with two of her favorite toys on top. Squire McSquiggleton and Queenie. They were her favorites. I think she would like the shrine.

We draw lines in the tea light so that she will visit in my dreams and then let the candle burn down to nothing. There one minute, gone the next.


I think I’m Marianne. Not that I’m quiet about what happened to me, but that it changed everything. Sexual assault is like a bomb in that once it happens, you don’t go back. I can think of too many moments where I didn’t stand up, where I didn’t fight back, where I didn’t speak.Where I didn’t say “I am a survivor.” But then there are just as many where I did stand up, where I did fight back, where I did speak—I just don’t think about those as much. Marianne never did.

Who I was before what happened to me was gone in what amounts to the blink of an eye. I won’t get that person back. I don’t want her back. I’m stronger without her.


I look at cats in shelters online, searching for a new best friend. No one jumps out and screams they’re a perfect match to me. I need to go and see them, visit the cats and pet them and experience them in person, but I’m not ready yet and that’s okay. Who we are is who we are, and what I’ve learned from Marianne and from my cat is that we’re here one minute and gone the next. We don’t control it. We don’t control anything but ourselves.

We were one thing, and then we were the next, and then we were the thing after that. We were always moving. We were change. We are.

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