It's 12 o clock exactly and I'm thinking about my dad.
I'm thinking about how the smell of cigarette smoke is comforting to me, and now it feels like I never really was a child.
It's 12 o' clock exactly and I'm imagining things I wasn't even born for.
I'm thinking about the home videos that exist of me as a kid, singing happy birthday to everybody and getting gifts from the family members who were more stable than I was.
For some reason that makes me cry.
It's 12 o'clock exactly and even though my eyes are stinging, I still can't stop thinking about the toy phone I got on my 4th birthday.
I only remember it because of the videos I was shown, but God, I remember the church. And God, I remember the room we rented out.
It's 12 o' clock exactly and I'm missing what I was up until a little under 8 when things started getting rocky.
My dad is there, so is my mom. My brother is sleeping in the other room and though my mother is hosting a Candle Party for extra cash, I tell my family members he exists. Because that was a time when I didn't hate him, or her, or him again, or them.
Because it is 12 o' clock exactly- and it's Monday now.
And I'm awake before the sun is ready to come up, and I'm thinking of the church I went to preschool in- the one that smelled of rice, the one where I spent most time in the basement, feeling and developing what I could before things blew out like dust.
It is 12:06 on a Monday morning and the memories I have of me as a child are slowly beginning to fade.
The dog I knew growing up who protected me, her name was Harley.
The old red house my aunt and my grandmother lived in, the one with the big hill I would run down.
The time Brett- he'll die soon- taught me to swim at a strange pool using styrofoam floats.
The times on Christmas when I would wear the dress and things were calm.
It is 12:10 now and my memories are gone, they're whisps now.
And I don't go to the church anymore. I don't live in the red house, the dog is far beyond gone and I haven't worn a dress since that day.
And yet the smell of cigarettes is still comforting to me, though I don't know why, I never really will.
It's 12:13 and I'm seeing my dad smoking on the porch. I'm running in my yard, the one that had thick woods in the back, the one that belonged to my family and the chubby Hispanic woman and her two kids whom I always poked with sticks, the ones who lived above us.
My mother is inside with my brother, and I'm laughing now. Later I'll go inside, I'll watch a movie with my family, and life will be a dream.
Later they will fight, and I will grow up, and the world will tilt on its axis in rapid succession.
And then later, still, the world will keep turning, and time will keep moving, and my estranged memories of colorful toys and possible happiness will fade.
And I'll be old soon. I'll be something new soon, something aside from what I've created myself to be now.
Maybe I'll never wear a dress again
Maybe I'll never go back to that rice smelling church
maybe I'll never see the red house, because it's blue now and a new life resides in it.
But it's 12:14 now and those things are gone, now.
It is 12:15 and the world is senseless- all except for the smell of cigarette smoke.
