The Recollection of Eleanor, Circa 1989

This was very hard for me to say, all of this. So I didn't. I just sat there and held my breath and then began counting down from 100. When I was little, you taught me how to sing 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall and that was before I found it annoying. Nothing you could ever do would annoy me.

You took me to the movies, during magic hour. When we went in, we had the whole day ahead of us. And afterward, nightfall reminded me of the winter of your life. I knew one day I would lose you and on the way home that Sunday evening, I looked out the window and up at the stars and just kept telling myself, "Some night. But not tonight."

I could think my way out of most things, but my determination was wavering here--and I was starting to see purple spots in my peripheral. This was all passing very slowly and when I was down to 14, I blacked out at the thought of waking up in an empty kitchen minus the smell of everything she made right with the world.

They hollowed me out, these walls. Here, in the darkness, I had no flashlight and all I could do was feel around for you. But you were nowhere to be found. Only the image of you etched right up here, good and tight, where they couldn't eradicate what was left of my happiness. And here is where I would stay, your keeper.

And you, mine.