A Greater Crack
- Feb 1, 2019
- 2 min read
by Nicole Bailey
I want to be young, and I want you to be well again. Leaning forward in your chair with your hands clasped tightly. I see the white of your knuckles. The way you would put your index fingers together and bring them to your mouth.
You had a serious face. Down to business, asking me what’s next. What will I do next?
After the funeral mass, they invited everyone to your home. We drove by, but I could not go in. I could not stand in your hallway or look at your couch or your books, which I imagine were everywhere, or even think about seeing your kitchen.
I could not do any of it. It would only mean you were not there. Traces of you. I wanted to see the whole you.
I wanted to see you leaning over your desk working. I wanted to see the quick, avian turn of your neck.
I went home and dug through my files. Scouring for your handwriting, to hear you again. You said I was an incurable romantic. I think the first time I read that I scoffed. I wanted to be hardened. I see now how hardened I am not. It is a relief. I was starting to wonder where the real kernel of me went
When we were locked down on campus, sheltering in place, you made us take our final anyway. Determined to return us to normalcy Sheltering us in strict routine, as if finals could save our lives.
A hollow. An emptiness that I am guessing I will not be able to fill with work or alcohol or food or money or cigarettes. Here I am freefalling.
If I had it my way, I could write you an email Dr. C! You won’t believe the things that are happening to me.
I will send it to you in a prayer, look for you in mountains of words, hug a tearful stranger in a parking lot. Are these the things you would like me to do?
Nicole M. Bailey is a short fiction author, playwright, poet, and professional grant writer for higher education. Her work has appeared in Santanero Zine, Turk’s Head Review, Trampset, Nailed Magazine, and onstage at STAGESTheatre in Fullerton, CA.
