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After We Leave This Place, All That’s Left Are Artifacts
“Butterfly”
“Mommy…mmm…and baby”
“Baby Felix!”
“Mmm…what’s this?”
“Flower, I touch?”
“I color for Felix”
“Felix and mommy”
“Felix and Isla”
“Oh no. Monster!”
“Moon”
You are
vanishing
A figment of her imagination
A story she heard once in a repressed memory
A life she’ll never remember living
A trauma she’ll unearth with a therapist in her 30s
A death she’ll never remember experiencing
(After all, she’s only two)
You are
A picture in a locket around my neck
A collection of pictures on my phone, in a book, and on the walls
You are
A book I never wanted to write but know now that I must
(Will you help me?)
You are
Condolence cards and a blue hospital toothbrush labeled “Felix’s first hairbrush”
And vaseline stained clothes
And the words on this page
And the tears in these veins
You live
On top of a green sideboard from IKEA
The one daddy built all by himself
That one day
We drove through Boston, the saddest city in the Northeast
Because that’s where you slept for 40 nights without me
You’re inside
A ceramic jar with your name carved on the front
The one Madison sealed
That one day
She was wearing black; how fitting
You’re attached
To your sister’s gold-framed mirror
We say goodnight at 7 o’clock on the dot
(Can you hear us?)
You’re framed
On my bedroom wall, underneath the “raise hell, kid” banner that used to hang in your room
And I wonder if you’re there and, more importantly, if you’re having fun
(Is it hot?)
You are
The background of my phone and the foreground of my mind
You are
The surprise baby born five days before my birthday
And the one who left me on a cold afternoon in mid-March that very same year
You are
A signed death certificate in a decorative box underneath my bed
You’re gone,
and I’m still here
(How? And what the hell am I supposed to do now?)
You’re gone,
and now you’re just a picture I look at on my wall