Hide and seek
I found your ear in the dryer.
I was hoping for more. Your mom shrugged with one shoulder, phone tucked away with the other. “Put it on ice before the blood gets everywhere,” she hiss-whispered.
I looked for a cup, something old and plastic that wouldn’t mind a body part in it. I found your other ear in the Tupperware cabinet. There were two fingers in there too, nestled between stacks of Pyrex. It’s hard to tell them apart without context. A middle finger is only a middle finger when it’s the middle finger.
I could only find crystal, heavy-bottom glasses. I cradled one and filled it with ice. The nice pebbly stuff from your stainless steel freezer. I dropped the ears and the fingers in and they dripped like syrup over a snow cone.
In the living room, I set the glass down to pull a joint from the velvety couch cushions. Knees and elbows kind of looked the same, but I thought it was your knee. I held it up to my own to compare; it was smaller than mine. It helped you find the best hiding spots. Even so, your knee wouldn’t fit in the glass, so I would have to come back for it.
Your brother gave part of you away. An Xbox doesn’t work with a hand shoved into the disc drive. He gave me shit for it, like I could have convinced you not to. He had a second one — a second Xbox, he had no idea about your other hand — and I told him that. But he was meaner to us when we weren’t together.
Your hand still had all of its fingers, making a peace sign. The blue polish on your nails was chipped because we forgot to add the top coat. I should have gotten a bigger glass.
Your dad’s study was locked, but I peeked under the door. Something dark and fleshy sat next to the desk. Wet rivulets traced the patterns in the hardwood, reaching, reaching. I wondered if you squeezed yourself through the key hole, or finally figured out how to pick a lock from that YouTube tutorial. Bent bobby pins and sore fingers. Your dad would be upset when he got home, but I never stayed that late.
My steps echoed in the hall. Nothing in the whole wide world could fill the space. I knew you weren’t in the vases, large as they were, because we broke one years ago and your mom still brought it up.
Please come out. I don’t have a dryer to hide in, but we don’t have to. I still have the blanket fort in my room. Or you can share the bed with me. I don’t mind that your feet are really cold or that your breath smells in the morning. My dad bought old Halloween candy on clearance, so we can put M&M’s in the pancakes like we did for my birthday last year. And dip the tips of our fingers in candle wax, and dip our toes in the creek while the minnows swim around. We could do it every day if you wanted.
Your eyes were bright in the dark. One of them looked at me from your vanity mirror while I sat on the edge of your bed and played twenty questions with the other. Blink once for yes, twice for no. Little blood drops fell with each answer, staining the white duvet underneath. Next to the nail polish stain we needed to hide.
Both of your eyes are blinking in your post. I watch it loop, over and over, and over. You’re somewhere far away, on a mountain or a rooftop and smiling at the camera. I wish I was there with you, but this isn’t about me. Gold hoops and little chains line the tops of your ears. A star dangles from the hole in your lobe we did in my bathroom before you left. I couldn’t convince you not to, so I did the next best thing and stuck the needle in. When the blood came I apologized, over and over, and over. But you didn’t flinch. We never tried stick and poke like we talked about, but the tattoos arching the lines of your shoulders look better than anything we could have done.
My dad still asks about you. I still have the glass in the back of my freezer. The blank cartilage and finger joints long iced over. I open our chat box, last used one year and two months ago.
Do you want them back? I type and delete. Do you miss them? I type and delete. I miss you, I type and delete.
How are you? I type. I’ll send it tomorrow.
👀👀👀👀👀