it’s hard to remember.
i sit at this computer and stare through empty words and watch Val sinking into the mud of a shotgun wedding, or Brenda hanging onto a red ruffled umbrella in a windstorm, and as i write the remembering turns into a slide show. Val stares at me blankly, stoned, and black eyeliner contains her blue eyes but not her tears. Brenda steps from a hallway into a locked stairwell, her face flat and perspiring, and then she sharpens a kitchen knife.
the slide show never stops coming; it lives on in a teenage dimension, looping over and over and over.