Foxthing's Writing!

artificial cherry tastes like my dad’s second house
not his first or childhood home
his second house: the cookie cutter one
with the two dead dogs in the too small backyard
and my other mother at the table, buttons and bullets scattered beside her

green apple I would understand
all the HiChews I’d sneak in before dinner
the only flavor they had in stock at the arcade
the fake-tasting snow cones we’d get before bed
my other mother’s generic shampoo and conditioner

choking on the chemicals, spit is everywhere
soaking my sheets with more than just tears
every night after her shower she’d come in and lock my door
she’d be mean to my stuffed animals and yell at the poor cat
she’d steal my LipSmacker chapstick and make me wish I was dead

artificial cherry tastes like my dad’s second house
the one that should taste of green apple and fear
with the two dead dogs in the too small backyard
and my other mother in the bathroom, washing my blood off her hands
artificial cherry tastes like my dad’s second house

and I don’t understand why

everyone says ai look just like him
my piercing eyes, my sharp smile, and my snow white skin
I’m a perfect carbon copy - a reflection of his youth
my mother mistakes me for him after only two drinks
she starts yelling and crying, begging me to stay this time
I embody his choices in more ways than one
his intense stare, his carnivorous fangs, and his deathly pale skin
everyone says I look just like him
and I act like him too
making stupid choices I’ll regret for the rest of my life
he’s a perfect carbon copy - a reflection of my future
angry and bitter, picking splinters from my chest
as if I wasn’t the one to drive the stake through his heart

When my grandmother
died, I wasn’t allowed
at the funeral. My mother told me
to stay in the bathroom - out of the way
But I waited
outside, sobbing on the curb
instead. I could hear my relatives’ cries
as they finally realize
she’s gone, really gone. They don't car
that I'm gone too. I can't
be in the room with them
but I grieve all the same.
Inside: my family mourned.
Outside: I smoked my first cigarette.
I wonder if they heard my cries too.

It’s the type of green you painted your bedroom walls with
at 7 and never changed since,
despite all the comments your sisters made. The original reason for
this specific shade
is lost in your mind as you agree
with them now, decades later,
as you sit on your childhood bed
staring at the chipped walls.
You could almost hear
your parents talking about you
from the other room as you think back
on all the other nights you spent
staring at that very wall; not understanding
why life was so hard.
But you understand now.
The paint you chose as a kid isn’t ‘booger’ green;
it’s the type of green children use
to draw grass. Bright and happy
in a summer breeze, photosynthesizing
with the lines beaming from the corner of the page
as stick figures hold hands.

7:00 AM – At school, everything was off. No one knew what I went through last night but at the same time I knew they all knew something. I never wore my heart on my sleeve but after God ripped it out of my chest I don’t know where else to put it. Six feet under might work. There’ll be enough room in the casket; cancer took most of her before she died. I hope she’ll get more use out of it than I ever did. At least then she’ll go to heaven with a heart; cancer took that from her too.

5:00 AM - Everything was still. All the wailing and pain left in the body bag with her leaving us all numb and empty. A house of four bloodlines emptied within two hours. Greif can be genocidal.

3:00 AM – When the paramedics arrived, it was chaos; between the crying and screaming no one told them where her body was so they weaved through fresh anguish and a field of medical equipment before finding a corpse tied to false promises. The first thing they did was unplug her oxygen machine like she wasn’t already dead for 50 minutes. I thought her flatlining was going to be the noise that stuck with me, but it was the silence after all the machines were turned off. They’ve been at home for nearly a month, and I became so familiar with their buzzing that when it stopped, I felt like a part of me died too.

1:00 AM – Some pain just can’t be put into words.

11:00 PM - Death only arrived today but its smell has been festering for weeks. Like a shirt worn for ten days in a row, each morning the smell of fresh daisies and blue skies fades slightly and is replaced with the musk of your blood, sweat, and tears. Eventually, that’s all the shirt smells like and you don’t even notice until it hits you right in the nose. But everyone else knew - you stink. Just like we all knew the daisies are dying and so is she.

9:00 PM – I miss her. She’s not even gone yet, and I miss her. My mom said she’s been gone ever since she got diagnosed but I still knew she was there. The way she always wanted someone to hold her hand, how she needed music in the background to calm down, how she’d yell and scream when you did something wrong. No matter how weak the chemo made her she always found the strength to hit you for messing up. At least cancer let her keep something.

7:00 PM – It didn’t fully hit me until now. She’s dying. After today I’ll never see her again. I’ll never hear her laugh or look at her smile. We’ll never make cookies or paint outside. I don’t remember the last time we did either of those. I wish I knew it was the last time before it ended. I would have tried harder to remember it if I knew. All I remember is her cancer. Spreading through each memory of her, one by one, not stopping until I forget her. She’s the one with cancer, but I’m the one who has to live with it.

I chained smoked an entire pack last night
The smoke mixed with distant starlight

The smoke mixed with my frosty breath
Breathing in and out, inhale and exhale

Breathing in and out, inhale and hold
Swallow the ember and glow inside

Swallow the ember and melt inside
You’re not a star if you don’t burn

You’re not a star if you don’t try
Push yourself to death and still fail

give yourself to death and still live
my lungs ache with tobacco and lies

my lungs ache with existence and wonder
I chain smoked an entire pack last night

ribs in my skin
poking out,
begging for god to make
me a companion.
alone. I am
not built to be
alone. I am
built with my ribs
poking out, begging

I went make-up shopping with my mother once at Marshall’s. I got two palettes and plenty of skin care products. I think my mother bought some hair products, but I don’t remember well. All I remember is the conversation we had in line.

“I know I have enough money but, like what if I don't?”

It was a simple question. It was a simple answer too, a throw-away comment meant to get a small laugh and ease my nerves. Instead, it’s on a loop in my head. Constantly, in my own mother’s voice all I hear is

“That’s my fault. I ruined you.”

I’m ruined.

I always knew I was different. That something about me was off and I wasn’t like others. Broken seemed like the verb I’d default to: damaged but able to be fixed. I always hoped I could fix myself to be like others, normal and happy. But ruined? You can’t fix something that’s ruined. Ruins are left for centuries, crumbling down, and rotting while people walk by and gaze at what’s left. I sympathize with the remains of Athens. Constantly acknowledged as but never offered any help. It wouldn’t do anything; I’m too far gone to be fixed. I’m ruined. And that’s something I can’t change.

Mother knows best.

“You ready?”

Can anyone be ready for war? Why are we even fighting Vietnam.

“What did they do?”

My brother turned to me, confused. His eyes turned brown at some point, and he looks younger than last night. I don’t know where he got that haircut, but it makes him look so unprofessional.

“What did who do, Dad?”

Dad. I’m a dad now. No, I’ve always been a dad. My son’s so old now, he’s a dad now too.

“The Vietcong, of course. They didn’t do anything for us to go off and fight them, bombing and killing for no reason at all. Such a shame all those boys died, such horrific deaths too. God bless their souls.”

“Yeah Dad, you’re right. They didn’t do anything, and those soldiers did die in horrible, horrible ways. You’re very lucky to have made it out.”

Lucky. Lucky to see my brothers in arms explode right in front of me. Lucky for being diseased with whatever they made use against those foreign kids. He’s lucky, he didn’t get drafted. My brother’s always been the lucky one.

“Lucky? I’m being sent off to die! Stop joking this is serious.”

“You’re not going to die Dad, Jesus. It’s just a senior living environment. We’ll all visit you as much as we can and you’ll have plenty of autonomy, but this way if you fall again or have another serious asthma attack a doctor will be right there to make sure you’re okay. Now I got all your bags and Delilah in the car, its you’re turn.”

Arm in arm we walked out of the house and up to the car. This might be the last time I see this neighborhood. It’s changed so much since I was a kid; flower beds torn up with trees and fences replanted in their place, boxy bland cars line the street while the neighbor’s new kids play in it, houses painted dull colors with more floors added and facing a different direction.

“Don’t forget your seatbelt, Dad. Here just let me…”

On the plane already. Seems like just a second ago I was saying bye to everyone. Now I’m in a helicopter with a gun, scouting the ground for any movement. The pilot keeps reporting commands from our general, but the sound of the blades and whirling drowns him out.

“YOU SOUND LIKE TV STATIC MAN; WE CAN’T UNDERSTAND YOU!”

“Jesus Christ Dad! Why are you screaming? Delilah’s a baby, no one can understand her. Just face forward and listen to the music, okay?”

As the radio gets louder everything around me gets darker. I think I’m in a hospital, I smell bleach and death. There’s crying and screaming, and prayers being mumbled everywhere.

“This is it, isn’t it? This is it.”

“What are you going on about now Dad?”

Clarity.

“This song. They played it when I woke up in the hospital. My first thought was to check my legs, make sure they weren’t chopped off. They loved to do that back then. They didn’t know what else to do but it’s a cruel world they sent those boys back to. The guys on either side of me were amputated, left leg on my right and both legs and my left. I wonder what happened to them. I was released before them, and they were glad I wasn’t seriously injured. They were mature, war really does age you. They were so old yet so young, we all were. ‘Them good ol’boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye and singing ‘this’ll be the day that I die.’”

I turned to my son, hoping he’d sing along. We used to sing in the car after his baseball practices all the time when he was younger. His strong brown eyes are covered in tears, turning them cold and blue.

“I don’t think I remember the last time I saw you cry.”

“Probably back when mom died.”

Gone.

He sniffed, wiping his face, and checking on something rattling in the backseat. It’s odd what he said. He died before mom, car accident. Some drunk driver smashed right into him on his way home one night. Mom and Dad were out of state, and I had to id my own brother.

“You had blue eyes when you died, I don’t know why they changed.”

He didn’t say anything for a while. Just stared off at the road making turns and following traffic. I must’ve gotten into another fight. I’m always getting into fights, it’s routine at this point. Some kids make fun of me, and I try to teach them a lesson. I barely get to throw two punches before the principal is on my ass talking about ‘safety’ and ‘respect’. Then my dad picks me up and we drive home in silence. A rage-based silence. Except this time was different, the silence wasn’t from rage but more from grief. He’s finally given up on me. I’m the mayor’s kid, I need to be setting an example not getting suspended every chance I get. It always feels so cheap when he says this, if I’m your kid why are you never here? You’re less of a dad and more of a neighbor. A neighbor that only comes over to yell at me for being such a screw-up. He parked the car and we both went inside without a word.

“Dad? We’re here. The nice nurse is gonna help you get settled in and we’ll see you in a few days, ok? Dad? Are you listening?”

“He’s listening, don’t worry. Dementia patients have pauses like this sometimes. Just hug him bye and get going.”

“Oh, ok. Yeah, um, bye Dad. See you soon.”

He hugged me and left. Not even a second look back. He just hugged me then left. This could be the last time he sees me and doesn’t even try to remember my face. Screw you, Dad! I’m going off to fight in a war, I’m finally becoming the man you bullied me so hard to be and you don’t even care if I die or not because of it. Am I your son, or just another disposable soldier whose death you’ll use to fuel your blood-hungry campaign?

“I hope I never see you again.”