Even though we received nearly three thousand essays, only half of the applicants paid, so there wasn’t enough to cover the cost of the house, and we could’ve extended the deadline, but I got paranoid that we were breaking some law by running what could be considered an illegal raffle and didn’t want my husband to go to jail on top of all the other shit that was going on. So, at the end of June, we called it quits, and Mike listed the house the traditional way. Fortunately, it only took a day for someone to make an offer.
During the inspection, which takes place the day after we sell your house, the potential buyer is walking around the attic, and his foot falls through the ceiling. Literally. And the rotting drywall, on the way down, scratches that print that used to hang in your dining room of all the pop icons—one of the things that most reminds me of you. I spent so much time in your house over the years staring at it, trying to figure out the identity of each character. And now it’s permanently banged up by a piece of old, rotten drywall that fell from the ceiling in this cursed, piece of shit house. Just heap it on top of the giant pile that my soul is buried under.
Sometimes I think about you being buried in the ground. I think about what color your skin is, the texture. I see a sort of shade of gray. I wonder how your arms are positioned and what your face is doing. You had such a great face.
13 Five Months
Every morning when I open my eyes, I think of Iris and then I think of you. You two are so fused together in my mind. The year she was born, I worried so much about both of you. This comes with the territory of motherhood. I am her mother now, but I mothered you first. After I stopped stealing your toys and hating you for stealing Mom, I cared for you. You were my little brother. Were or are? Past or present? It still says you’re my brother on Facebook. But you’re no longer here to be my brother. So, am I still a sister? Is sister a verb or a noun? Is it something you have to actively do to be one, or do you keep the title once the other half is gone?
When I was your sister, actively, I protected you. I paid for you. I felt responsible for you. I kept all your darkest secrets. I loved you ferociously. When we went to clean out your house, I went on a shredding spree, convinced random people would rummage through the trash. Looking back, I don’t even remember what I shredded. Entries in your journal from rehab. Some stuff in a shoebox in the closet of your guest room. Love letters, maybe? I didn’t even read them. I just felt such an instinct to protect you even after you were gone.
I wonder if I will ever open my eyes and not think of you within those first few moments. I don’t see how it’s possible. I wonder if you are the first thing on Mom’s mind when she opens her eyes. Surely. We mothers think of our children first—always.
When we look at photos together now, Iris says everyone’s name but yours, a constant reminder that she will never know you. She says Momo, Bapa, Mommy, Daddy, Iris…then she gets to your face and goes silent. In one black-and-white family photo from 2010 that I carry in my wallet, she thinks you look like Mike and calls you “Daddy” (gross). Whenever I show her baby pictures of you, she shouts “Iris!” She thinks it’s her. It could be. There’s a strong likeness.
God, I wish you could be here to watch her grow. She’s so cool. And smart. And funny. She often prances around the house in a pink leotard with butterfly wings sewed onto the back and forces Mike and I to partake in endless rounds of “Ring Around the Rosie,” drowning in laughter every time we all fall down. She knows all her animal sounds and shapes and colors. She laser-focuses on any movie from start to finish—crying at the sad parts, laughing at the funny parts. Her sense of empathy is astounding. She makes an angry face and a happy face and a surprised face and a worried face on command. She’s wildly sensitive—a tiny tornado of feelings. She’s a force. And loving. So loving.
I worry about how all of this will affect her—babies absorb it all—but every day provides further proof that neither her hearing loss nor the overwhelming grief that has swallowed her mother whole has had any impact on her development. She’s a happy and well-adjusted child who blows kisses with every hello and goodbye; a wave will not suffice. Every speech evaluation thus far has put her well ahead of the curve. She goes to a regular preschool with hearing kids and needs no special accommodations. Because we were so aggressive with early intervention, narrating every moment of her life that first year, attending speech therapy every two weeks, which turned into monthly, which turned into quarterly, which turned into bi-annually, she has
