This has become a habit. Every morning, Cosmos sends me a poem. Sometimes it’s by a poet I recognize, sometimes one I don’t. Occasionally, like this morning, it’s something he’s written. Always a single poem. Nothing else.
“Hazel, you in there?” Aunt Joan knocks on the guest room door, butdoesn’t wait to come in. “Ah, good, you’re up.” She walks past the bed to dig around in the closet where she stores her craft supplies. “Just need a few things. You can do some quilting with me if you’d like.”
“Actually… I was thinking of going home today.”
Joan looks at me. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” I say, not sure at all. “It’s time.”
Kiara’s been keeping an eye on Mom’s house the past few days while I’ve been here, but I can’t just hide away at Aunt Joan’s forever. I suck in a breath and nod firmly. “It’s time,” I repeat, talking myself into it.
Aunt Joan rubs her hands along the outside of her thighs. “Alright then. But you call me if you need anything, you hear?”
“I will.” And for once, I think I mean it.
Cosmos:
Nothing Gold Can Stay by Robert Frost
Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
Each morning my pulse flutters as I open my phone to see Cosmos’ text. It’s the first thing I do before getting out of bed. For a brief shining moment, with the sun shining through my window, and Cosmos’ words in my mind, the words pull me out of the numb and make me feel something.
Today’s poem is a flood of feelings. It hurts to feel so much all at once, like a limb coming back to life after being asleep.
What would have happened if I’d noticed something was wrong with Mom sooner, if I hadn’t been so wrapped up in Cosmos that I didn’t see the signs? Could I have saved her? If I could trade her life for my happiness, I would. In a heartbeat. It doesn’t feel right that I’m still here and she’s not.
My thumb hovers over the keypad on my phone. I should respond. But it’s for the best if I don’t. I never have before. If I let things continue, it’ll only be harder, because eventually we’ll end up right back here. Whether it’s now or a year from now, he’ll realize I’m right. I’m not good enough for him.
Dropping my phone on the mattress, I slip out of my room and walk down the hall to Mom’s. It’s still perfectly preserved, but her scent is fading. There’s a very light layer of dust covering the nicknacks on her dresser. The glossy clay blob I made in second gradethat was supposed to be a dog. A porcelain doll that belonged to my great-grandma. A jewelry stand covered in necklaces, most of them homemade. The mirror over the dresser shows how sallow my skin is, the sunken dullness to my eyes. I can’t look at myself. I can’t look at any of this.
Going into her closet, I pull her favorite sweatshirt off a hanger, bring the fabric to my mouth, and scream. I crawl onto her bed, clutching the sweatshirt like a security blanket. But there’s no security here.
When Kiara knocks to see if I want breakfast, I don’t answer.
“Morning, Mom.” I roll onto my side and study the intricate pattern on the urn. I don’t carry it around with me anymore, but it still feels nice to wake up and pretend, for just a moment, that she can hear me, that she’s here.
“I don’t know how to do this.” I stare up at the stucco ceiling. “Today, I’m going to see a therapist. Someone Kiara recommended. Maybe talking will help. What do you think?”
The room is quiet. Noises drift through the wall from the kitchen. Kiara must be getting ready for the day, which means I slept late. I haven’t woken up at 4:22am in days. It’s not a relief. It feels like I’ve lost one more thing.
A slice of sunlight breaks through the gap in mycurtains and splits the ceiling in half. “I have a new plan, Mom. I’m going to do one thing each day. That’s it. Just one thing that needs to get done, one thing to help me. Today, I’ll go to the therapist. Tomorrow, Aunt Joan is coming over. She decided we’re starting a book club—romance novels only.”
My chest tightens, and my breath sticks in my throat. Mom would have loved doing a romance novel book club with Aunt Joan and Kiara. I wish we’d started it when she was alive.
