This is the End

Those 8 Months

It's been 8 months. You were 9 years young, too naive to comprehend the meaning of every I love you. Treated every good night kiss as if it was your last and held on too tightly with every hug because you were afraid you'd never be able to hold them again. And now I'm wishing I thought more like you, held on a little longer and cherished each moment like you did. Because now, it's too late. It has been 8 months and I still wake up in the middle of the night listening to your faded screams echoing off the paper thin walls. Caused by storms of thunder. Moving over in bed so you can fill the empty space. Only you aren't here to fill it.

Who knew words could hit you so hard. Like an arsenal of waves tossing me in a whirlpool of regret. Knots twisting and turning in the pit of my stomach, each memory like a dagger piercing my inner happiness. Like a dark cloud, guilt hangs over my head haunting my existence. Scenarios dancing behind my closed eyelids, unable to sleep because of the feared hostility of your presence. Shock flooding through my veins, like an uncontrollable drug. That moment keeps replaying in slow motion, those venomous words echoing through the walls of my hollowed mind. Like scenes from movies stuck on replay fictional contortions of what used to be non-fiction, pushed into the back of my disorientated mind. A never ending movie reel.

This isn't happening, When I walk through that door you'll be there to greet me like always running sliding across the floor in your black faded grey socks.

Everything is still the same, go to bed, wake up, wake you up, walk back into my room and sleep until you wake me up again begging for a ride to school. It's only 30 minutes away one step at a time one foot in front of the other and you know the way from point A to point B but you don't like to be alone. I will drive you, as you ask for the ride home I won't decline and spit already broken promises of being on time. Three quarters past three, 15 minutes late leaving the house, another 15 to get there, half an hour late. No longer at school and not at home, that phone call did not speak of your death, but that you had returned home to me. Because I picked you up from school, wasn't late, on time and you didn't walk home alone.

8 months ago, I complained about how miserable I thought you were making my life; how annoying you were, how it wasn't my responsibility to feed you, wash your clothes, clean your mess, help you with your school work or take you to school. Now I see your cold body discoloured skin dripping with the pungent odours of the lake. You look at me, your eyes say it all but you speak anyways " I always think of abandonment when I think of you." but blame is a lazy mans wage and I think of those hours I wasted away blaming you for near every misfortune I attained when I was not allowed to go out. You limp towards me, With every step I retract I want to take back everything I have wronged and alter it but that is not a luxury I possess. Hour after hour after hour for hours on end I awaited your return, only to be faced with the harsh reality. You aren't coming home. Little bro, I miss you; do you know that your big Sis loves you & would do anything just to hear your whiny voice & cackling laughter again? I have woken from this nightmare too many times to count but I am awake now and I realize I'm ready to play with you .

And so I breathe. Allow myself to remember the sound of your cries and laughter.The smell of your shampoo and conditioner, the sight of your innocent presence, the dirt in your hair, the green on your jeans, and the impossibility that you would come home clean one day. Now you come, as clean as a fresh pair of white socks shining your appearance through the clouds. A young soul waiting to be uncovered by the wonders of this world. I feel you, smell you and hear you. Though I am dazed and saddened by your departure I will overcome the hate and self pity and replace it with open arms to a new life. A life without your physical being, A new life with the spirit of you living within me.

It has been 8 months, and I miss you more than I thought I ever would. There are so many things I want to tell you. To whisper to your unconscious conscience all of the sweet nothings that mean everything to me. Tell you I love you and even though I have said it, i didn't say it enough. I still dream about you, your impossible fantasies become mine as I try to live all of them for you. I will listen to your whispers in the wind, and try to tame the rough waters of my soul. I will see the world through your smiling eyes, full of hope and wonder. Memories of you will continually be imprinted in my heart, memories as real as the vivid image of blossoming flowers in the early spring. I won't let the loss overcome me anymore, but never will it truly heal. Looking upon your grave, I now realize the consequences that come with ignorance. It's warm outside, and maybe it's just me but this July heat can't melt my frozen heart. It's been 8 months.

(This poem has been written by Elizabeth McKay and 3 other poets for a performance group piece.)