You put your face up right next to mine
and scream out a list of rights I don't have:
the right to make tea in the morning
the right to stay up past 9 pm
to carry mouthwash with me
to use my own soap
to hang my coat in my closet
to spend more than eight hours away from home each day
to change plans when away from you without telling you
(no matter how small the change)
to open my windows or back door without permission
to open the back gate at all
to speak when you are not present

I want to write a ******* autobiography someday
and have more than a chapter
and that chapter ain't even here:
If I sit and think about my life,
I have no real memories with you.
The memories that count are the ones spent away from you

Playing on the playground
of the apartments by the mill with two friends
(both of which are now ******* druggies)
or sitting in the back of his aunt's station wagon
when one of em backs into the mailboxes
(at the age of six)

Building forts in the woods at four corners.
Bonfires, frog catching and golf at Anne's.
Wandering trails while camping with them.

Running through the woods with ubie
building forts from old tires, grass clippings and sticks
and playing endless games of fetch with her.
Some days we'd walk the creek back to the fern grove
some days we'd skip rocks by the "waterfall"
and some days we'd slip under the barbed wire to visit the neighbors.

The old **** lab in Carlsborg
which we labeled as "the barn" since it was one-
had plenty of small passageways that we'd play  hide and seek in.
But some days we'd get bored
so we'd go past the church to the rock quarry and climb the hills
or we'd walk the trail as far as we were willing to go
or climb over the abandoned canopy into the neighboring field
and walk over to visit the horses and goats.

Port Angeles was long walks for me,
trails dark and ominous that always led to the park
or roads that always continued on forever,
until I found that one house that I used as an anchor.
Ryland was born there
So was me, not I, but me, the beginning of ME

Then there was Taylor cutoff-
A mile back in the woods
by a junkyard
and a quarter mile from the Dungeness.
I would walk the river most days,
past the farms near the hatchery,
where the power lines always crackled
and the abandoned barns called my name.
some days I'd take the bus to Sequim, others to PA.

Dabob was a trailer that we packed full of memories-
Pulling hoses up long hills to water small trees.
loading up the truck with wood chips for the yard.
rolling boulders into trees with the tractor.
Taking Ryland to the ER for croup.
And fitting three people into a five by ten room to sleep.
not to mention:
bonfires, fireworks, bobcats, mountain lions, 3 cults and *** farmers

This is the ****** though, Edmonds-
city life, and I'm ******* loving it.
I want to write myself a life, father
and I know where to do it
and how
and it ain't here under your oppression.

Three months and the story changes

They round the tip of the hill jogging-
Him; 58, smiling, cheering her on.
Her; a student, beautiful in every regard-
words, body, face and mind,
an asthmatic
one of the worst cases I've seen.
She's choking on something,
or perhaps, the absence of something.
tears are welling up in her eyes and occasionally letting themselves go

Her name is strength

fighting to climb that last bit of hill without falling over
telling him every time he asks if she needs to stop
that she doesn't.

She crosses the line and we go inside
she falls asleep for a few minutes sitting there on the bleachers
letting her breathing return to normal.

There are two tonight-
two ambulances,
red lights illuminating the dark neighborhood
as they make their weekly trip to the old folks home
at the end of the street.
This could be the end of eight decades for someone
for a neighbor of mine.
Could be one less crazy old woman
walking down the street shouting at the neighborhood dogs
(and mailboxes).
The lights fade from view as they cross 9th.
A tear falls to my desk
as I wonder
"who was that?
what ended tonight?"
and as I lay down and roll over to stare at the wall
I imagine who they could have been.

She sits there
fifteen feet from me
alone.
tears are frozen in her eyes
have been for a few days.
I know how she gets,
I used to wipe away those tears.
But now I just sit here and pretend not to notice
because she told me to.
And that's what hurts-
not that she told me to-
but that I can't disobey
and go sit there.

the absence of lamplight reveals the world behind
the usually covered french doors;
as the world becomes darker the sky glows purple
an eerie bruise
frozen into being.
streetlights and porchlights add their own interpretations
on how trees should be covered
and the pines, green in daylight
turn into purple, black, green and orange towers
hiding the hospital below
which shares their transformation with the light from the apartments

It feels too early for them to be playing the ******* Wii
and I realize I can't even see them
but I feel each of them step on my head
hear each of them yell at me to wake up
that I've been asleep too long.
I roll over and try to my eyes
but realize they're already open, and have been.
I unclench the blanket
from my stomach
which is screaming near as much as my head.
And I quit blaming the headache and stomachache on them-
they are fast asleep
and I'm just hallucinating their presence
and 6 in the morning
because those aren't dreams
they are hallucinations.
Or so I find when I take my phone out of my pillow
(beating it on the ground because i can't find the end of the case)
to see why my phone alarm hasn't gone off.
my phone says it is 2:30
and I realize that I set the clock three and a half hours ahead
in my half lucid state.
I stand,
separating myself, in a less than graceful manner
from my brothers carpet.
I stumble through the doorway
lit by the lamp he always keeps on
through the dark hallway
and into the bathroom.
I flip on the light and shut and lock the door in one movement.
my eyes are tired and bloodshot
my head and stomach hurt.
I let a small stream of cold water go
and splash it over my face and open eyes.
that does nothing.
I through more water over my front.
no effect.
I try to scream but no sound comes out.
I open the the door
letting the lock pop loudly enough to deserve a four hour lecture.
I'm tired of lectures.
I stumble back to my makeshift floor bed
and try to lay down.
my stomach complains
I can't bend all the way.
I pick up my blankets and pillows
(silently screaming)
and carry them to the small couch.
I flip the tv stand over and throw grandma's blankets and pillows
I'm done giving a ****.
I throw my bed down and lie there.
for two and a half hours I try to sleep.
I'm too tall
I decide around five.
I stand
throw the tv stand
all the other pillows and the phonebook
the other way
and lay down on the large couch.
it takes me fifteen minutes to fall asleep.
forty five minutes later
I wake up to him screaming at me.

I sit here
drinking six bag Bengal Spice tea
listening to Pandora
while my brother eats his breakfast behind me.
The song changes and I recognize it,
a little too well;
One Saturday at the Sequim food bank,
the only week he ever had me man the meat freezer
and not the bread room or dairy room.
I had to sneeze
So I took the back hallway
to stand among the shelves of toilet paper and soap.
She was taking a load out front-
soap and cans from the canning room.
She was singing this song
didn't see me standing on the other side of that shelf.
She had been the reason I started volunteering here,
or half the reason;
I wanted to volunteer and do something fulfilling
but I also wanted to learn her name.

This is one of the only times in my life
where I acted on impulse-
I started singing too,
my deep bass and her soprano creating a melody
that makes me want to skip this song
because it isn't the same.
But I listen to remember her reaction-
instead of walking away, stopping or sighing-
she kept singing, laughing just a little bit
letting me hear the smile on her lips.

She finished grabbing what she needed
and walked away, still laughing
still smiling as she walked into the hallway
(which was the only lit place back here)
and kept singing, even as she sat back at the front desk.
I returned to my position a minute later-
15 feet from her.

In ten weeks of volunteering there
that was the most we ever spoke to each other
and I wouldn't wish it any other way.