Afterlife

At the end of the memory, you forgot to close the door. You hear the neighborhood children playing hide-and-go-seek outside in the yard, calling Come out, come out, as if still looking for you. But where are you now? Is this your house? Did you place the cherries on the counter? Is that blood or their juice staining your lip? Is it a pit or panic clenched inside your throat? One fall afternoon, many years ago, you knelt under the porch, holding your one little breath, leaves and dirt weaving a loose crown in your hair, as you stayed so still and scared, trying so hard to be quiet as he searched, your heart beating itself out when his shoes stopped there, in front of you, and he bent his knees—It’s begun to rain inside the house now, but no cloud can hide you, who shakes like lightning inside anything that holds it. You shake and shake. The shower’s too cold, and you can’t get warm, can’t remember if you were ever warm, can’t figure out how someone can still be alive if they were never found.

Read more from Issue 22.2.