Then I came back and it was winter so I put on her boots making it real to me that she isn't actually here anymore - that I can't talk to her. But when someone dies when you're away it doesn't feel like it actually happened and if I were still sitting in a restaurant with bad lighting eating a samosa then maybe she would still be alive. I wanna go back there so she can be alive again.
Instead I visit my mom and she reminds me of how I told her she was prettier than my step-mom when I was three - like I thought there was a competition between parents. It's too hard to leave her again. Like I wanna put her in my pocket because everything feels too fast for me without her.
"You amaze me", my high school running coach said to me when I beat the girl with the braids.
"You amaze me", my dad said to me when we reunited in an alleyway in Hanoi. I was eating a bowl of pho on a small stool made of bamboo.
"Quick quick quick quick, Meredith, be good in the middle" she yelled to me from the sidelines and even though I heard her I still peed my pants. I thought the point was to win but really it was to cooperate. It was to cooperate with my legs - to cooperate with my mind - to cooperate with icy sidewalks and movement.
People I grow to care about become emails that I have to respond to that turns into guilt when they're gone - turns into guilt when I'm gone. And now I realize that no one is prettier than anyone and I was just a baby when I said that to my mom who is now in my pocket. Now she gets it because she's watched where I've been and she knows that the other woman is pretty too.
I guess what I mean to say is that instead of leaving I wanna put them all in pocket because everything feels too fast for me alone.
And if I'm wearing a dress, I guess I'll just put them all in my head and then I won't forget.
Nah, I won't forget.