It's wondering where you put that album and knowing you won't remember in time. The voices from downstairs are calling you back and wondering where you've disappeared to, and it's turning around like a frightened creature at the sound of the door creaking open and the light flashing through. It's like watching the shadow play against the wall and knowing you have to hide soon, or they'll find you.
And even as I reach the top of the attic in search of him, it was useless. Between the boxes of sweaters and the rotting bags of old toys, he's gone. His footprints have ceased being steady and now stretch between each other as if desperate to put an ocean between them.
It's like panic when I reach the end of the attic and realize I've missed the whole point entirely.
It's like a cold and thick helping of molasses lodged in my throat to know that he's slipped behind me and shut the door closed. It's the knowledge that I'm not scared of the dark that frightens me, because if it's not the dark, then what? It's standing in the room with all these memories around me and not knowing where to start or how to end.
It's clamping your teeth together like a hook lock and hoping you don't press hard enough to bleed. It's holding your face straight and praying that even if the tears fall in the darkness, no one will see. It's like being dazed when you've realized you've shut out someone looking for you and you're on the wrong side of the door. It's like wanting to cry and bowing your head, but knowing you are only programmed to look up at the stars and smile.
It's like wondering if a burned bridge can still be crossed, even if that means going through the mud. It's hoping that even if you're dirty and sloppy and so full of it, there will still be an open hand waiting to pull you out when you make it. It's sludging through the dirt and wondering what stupid thought made you think that burning the bridge down was a good idea in the first place.
It's being curious to know if you'll still have some of the same old person left in you to be recognized. It's like having an ID that's too many years too old and yet the face really hasn't changed. So why isn't it acceptable anymore? It's knowing you went two-faced and don't really know why, but realizing it was the only way you were going to make it.
And then it's a kickback in reverse and thinking why you needed another mask to survive in the first place.
Then you realize you've made it to the other side of the bridge and no one expected you there. So why bother showing up?
Because it's like when I find the damned swinging light bulb hanging from the tallest rafter in the attic flooding everything with light. And when I realize it wasn't because I was scared of the dark. I was scared of not finding you. I know that I really had you here, all around me, and it takes more than just a photo album to hold you in.
It's like smiling when I find your favorite book and realize that change is going to wither you away to nothing unless preserved. It's like rolling my eyes when I see the stupidity of my search and go out to help you from the mud.
