Suicide Christmas
- Dec 3, 2019
- 2 min read
by C. Cimmone
I only did what I had to this morning
Before I drove to my appointment.
I stood in line at the market and
Thought about that Christmas song I love.
Do you remember it playing on Thanksgiving night — and we held hands in Marble Falls?
*
I remember all of these strange things.
I guess you have to remember when you need to forget.
One day, it will all be gone
And I’ll only have a few things to carry:
How you cried in that stiff hospital chair when our baby died;
The way you measured and leveled the curtains and the picture frames;
Midnight — when we sat in your car rolling smoke and staring at the dead wolves hanging on Crane’s fencepost.
*
All of these things jam up my mind
The way dust and strings keep a vacuum from going.
*
I’m glad you aren’t buried in the ground
Because I would lay awake and wonder about your skin turning black and your lips withering away like a rotten animal,
Killed in the street by traffic and paychecks.
*
I told the doctor about you last time;
Today she asked if I was sleeping again.
I told her I wasn’t sure of the difference between when you were here and since you’ve been gone.
She told me to talk to the priest and gave me a prescription for Pill #2
to be taken with Pill #1.
She said I would feel better in four weeks,
But Christmas is in two weeks.
The angels are already singing
And the star on top of the tree asked me
What I deserved for still hanging around.
I raised my hand to pause the angels,
And took the star off the tree.
*
Tonight, I’ll hang that cross in the hallway,
The one the priest blessed after he saw you
Back there
in a bag they wouldn’t let me unzip.
I’ll stare at Jesus dying for my sins (and all of yours too)
And hope you’re waiting there for me
when I’m done.
C. Cimmone is a writer and comic living in Texas. She is a reader for Marías at Sampaguitas and editor at large for trampset.
