What I’ve Left Behind - Esme Fromhart

I’m sitting in the backseat of a car, whose car I cannot recall.

I cannot drive any longer, and my contribution to adult conversation has gone stale, thus I sit in the back.

I am next to you, Jordan. The shaking of my hands has become involuntary. You hold them steady.

Can you tell my mind is drowning? Thoughts flow past me in a swift stream, I reach into the water but my hands return empty and cold.

It is silent when I speak, You are all as confused as I, as to where my mind has gone.

My hands are cold, I wonder why. I catch sight of her for a brief moment, and I hold her.

I hold her tighter than my now feeble hands can manage, her giggle echoes through the now-empty caverns in my mind. I can’t let go.

I feel the water, at first it’s light until it’s heavy, soaking my clothes. It’s cold, so cold. But she laughs, so I laugh. I feel pavement on my bare feet, it burns through my calloused soles. I see her.

I finally see her, Maureen. Oh, Maureen. Her hair is long and tangled, she’s soaking wet, so am I. The sun beats down on our freckled faces. An open fire hydrant spurts behind her. She pulls us back into it. The heavy water has loosened my grasp of her hand, it slips out.

I reach through the cold downpour, but am met with a violent gush of water to my face. It knocks me down. I am underneath, struggling to breathe. My mouth is salty.

I remembered the fire hydrant, opened. Bathgate Avenue. My sister, the heat, the cold water. I'm hit again.

Another splash to the face, it pushes me away and drags me in. I’m struggling. An arm around my waist, someone has grabbed me. Drags me out of the vicious loop in which I was stuck. My hair is thick with sand and salt, it sticks to my forehead. I’m laughing. I’m holding him so tight.

“Dad”.

I can’t let go. I remember, I thought it was lost; taken by the stream. I’m holding on so tight. Please, please stay.

I’m brought back by a voice from the front of the car; “Where’d you go mom? You were saying something. About Aunt Maureen?”

My hands. My useless hands, their paper-thin skin. Why couldn’t they hold on tight enough.

You hold my hand the same way she did, hoping I would not let go. Jordan.

“It’s Esme”

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Esme is a graduating senior.