A Tent
I can hear the patter of rain above me. Feel the wind whistle through the fabric. I look at the zipper to ensure it is closed but it's rattling with the wind.
The tent feels larger than I remember but it could be that I am alone this time. This is the same way that it always goes. How it begins night after night.
"What are you so scared of? The wind? The rain? Camping is fun."
As it turned out I had something to be scared of, camping was not fun.
Closing my eyes, I lean up and close my hand around the zipper. I can taste the fire and smell the rain. I can hear the wind. Whispering, always whispering to me.
"Calla. Caaalla." It taunts me.
The tent has a tear in it that I have never noticed. It's small, can be sewn easily. Except I don't want to sew this tent. I'm not sure what I want anymore.
It's just a tent. A piece of fabric held up by poles. It's green and flimsy and unsafe. A tent. I grip the zipper again and move it. For a second, I hear his laughter. It slams into me again and again as I crawl into the tent.
The air is stale. Musty from the tent sitting in the room for the past few months. There is no him. No camping trip. No jokes at my expense. And even though I know this, it doesn't make it any easier.
He's still gone. Nowhere and everywhere all at the same time. And I am here. Left behind. Forgotten. An afterthought as usual.
I lie flat on my back in the empty tent and stare at the roof. The first thing I note is the silence. His father and brother are downstairs somewhere. Packing, I think.
This was left for me. Too hard. They spoke. Better if you do it. They begged.
And of course, because this is all that I have left of him, I agreed. Not thinking of the pain or confusion. Just thinking that one last time I get to be close to him, close like before. Like nothing has changed.
Not healthy. My parents argued with me. I know it isn't. This obsession I have. Torture. It's all that I have though.
