Sometimes I think about your mother. I still remember when we were at my house on Chatroulette. We laid on my bed in our pajamas and flirted with some guy from Wisconsin, thrilled and eating salt and vinegar chips. We were interrupted by her call; her voice on the phone sounded inhuman. I remember walking to your house that night with you. We took the knives and the cold medicine and put them in your closet where she couldn’t find them. We unplugged the phone from the wall, but she kept crying into the receiver, telling her ex-husband about how she had died her hair. She whispered, “Why don’t you love me anymore?”
When you would speak to her, your voice would get low, and sweet, and you’d wrap the blanket around her like my mom used to wrap a towel around me when I was done with swimming lessons.
Sometimes I pass your old house, and I see us sitting on your porch in the moonlight like we used to, talking about drugs or summer or our cute history teacher, and you’re looking back every few minutes to make sure that her bedroom light is still on.
It’s been off for quite some time now.