The Last Words You Said to Me

Sometimes to make time pass quicker I imagine what you’ll look like pregnant. I picture you with a round belly and holding your back and shuffling around and breathing funny. This thought makes me smile.

Sometimes, too, I think about my lips pressed against the top of your head and your head pressed against my chest. And in this moment I am scared of this intimacy and you say, “Sometimes you just have to let go, Henry”. You say this with a Southern accent even though you’ve never been to the South.

Every once in a while if I shut my eyes I see you running at me, angry and beating your fists against my chest. And in this imaginary moment you say, “Sometimes you just have to let go, Henry”. But it’s hard to hear the accent because you’re yelling.

Once I had this dream where we ate ice cream cones in the winter on a snow covered hill. You turned to me and told me about a hypothetical bank robbery we could commit if we had tear gas and Doctor’s scrubs.

When I’m waiting for a bus or in a long line I picture us at my Mother’s funeral. And you’re standing next to me in a very elegant black dress. The mood is very somber and a fog creeps in. I start crying and you put your arm around me and pull me towards you and whisper, “Sometimes you just have to let go, Henry”.

The last words you said to me echo through my head like “Hello!” into a canyon.