Forget me lots (Completed)

5. Dawn🌿

Over the past two years after Dad left, without a speck of doubt, I've realised that my mind travels elsewhere. She wanders away without my heavy bones. I guess it's because I've gained so much weight that she's left me behind and flies solo—free from the constraints of a body that does nothing right anymore.

It gets scary sometimes. Whenever I'm riding my whirlwind—that's how I call this thing that happens to me anyway—I lose focus and recollection of what I've done. It's as if I go to sleep, but my body stays behind, performing all the involuntary functions needed to stay alive—like blinking.

Blink. I'm here. I'm awake.

Blink. There it is, the sour tang of my grief. It makes my stomach hurt.

Blank. No more fear. No more monsters telling me I'm fat and alone.

The problem lies in waking up to a moment I don't want to be a part of. Like this moment, for example.

Blink. I'm walking into a class brimming with judgmental stares.

Blank. Everything fades and I don't have a care in the world around me anymore.

Blink. I'm back—can't tell how long I've been gone. A teacher is asking me to recite a poem I know like the back of my hand. A poem that takes me to the deep ends of my worst scenario. A haunted place where my dad is dead, and I carry his voice in my bones, echoing in me...

Why Sylvia Plath? Why a poem by this girl who tried to slice her throat at ten because her daddy was as dead as mine? I get why she wanted to leave. Tired of being alone and scared. Exhausted from the weight of a thousand questions left unanswered. I get why she thought she had a chance to go back to him. Lured by the memory of the warmth of his embrace. She did, at thirty. Will I want to go too?

My gaze wanders to the curtainless classroom window as I think of her but try not to think of her. I've traced and retraced Sylvia's life in my head. I've googled her, and I know the name of her mother, Aurelia. Her two children, Frieda and Nicholas—who barely knew their mom. I think of Tommy and Bree, who barely knew Dad...

So, I recite it. For the girl who flirted with death using a sharp blade. For me, this ferny girl, who wishes her transformation was complete, so she'd grow again, with her dad's ashes strengthening her roots.

For us both, barely able to breathe or hold steady every time a new wave of grief threatens to pull us under. Maybe I should listen to the tide. Let it carry me away. I know you did. Is it better where you are, Sylvia? Is it?

I carry on, stanza after stanza. Loud and steady. For our dead dads. Yours called Otto, who taught biology with a focus on apiology—the study of bees. For mine, Frank, who loved them and called me baby bee. What are the odds? And in that infinite, molecular moment, I'm grateful for my tiny secret. I thank my involuntary processes that keep me breathing, blinking and listening to his voice.

"Hey, baby bee. I've always loved how you recite poetry." He comes to me, summoned by my need.

Hush now, Dad. I'm trying to remember the words.

I know he won't mind waiting for our next conversation. He chuckles and fades away, and the poem ends.

The snake girl from the lake regurgitates acid over my recitation. She mentions cookies because I'm fat.

Blink. There's this restlessness in my sharded bones.

Blink. It's safer to disappear.

Blank. Silence is deafening too.

"Shut up, Lorna!" The tall boy from the same den comes to my aid. Is this happening? Why would he care about the chubby nerd that recited a sappy poem about water? But he did. He shushed his viperine friend and now all eyes are on him.