our mind protects us at all costs, with incredible feats of chemistry. no matter how badly we may want to relive that thing, just once, to get some closure maybe, it won’t listen. it knows what’s best. sometimes, though, as a consolation prize, it gifts us a few moments. just enough to make us feel like we remember.

leaning against the railing on the lopsided porch, breath turns to clouds then air. a hand on my shoulder guides me back inside, the other hand offering wine in a plastic cup. there’s nothing we can do about it tonight.

the next day the call comes, no longer than a minute. I'm not surprised, though perhaps I should have been. I did something to deserve this. maybe it’s random like they say. maybe I should have been kinder. maybe I'll learn a lesson. knees to chest, cheek to rug, grasping for comfort alone.

tears behind my parents' eyes, attempting the impossible. packing a bag to make a hospital feel like a home. creating hope out of nothing. making promises they can’t keep.

when you’re in a hospital for long enough, you learn its song. all sounds come at a cadence. my monitor beeps on the sixteenth, the IV drips on the eighth, footsteps pass outside on the quarter, a cart pushes on the half, a gentle knock on the door on the whole. snow falls outside, the new year begins to a different soundtrack than usual.

surrounded by meticulously curated silence, I take up space in a back room of the house. the air laced with disinfectant, the tv remote and a glass of water placed carefully within reach, I stare into the ceiling. will a lesson come? or is this simply an unremarkable reminder of what it is to be human?

hair on the pillow, in the drain, at the dinner table. strands of reality falling away.

they ask if I have a will. I don’t. I'm 25. I consider what I'll leave behind. it’s not enough.

a long overdue text to a friend. a call I'd put off for months. more thank yous. a donation. a resolve to give more than I take.

still self pity and fear. insecurity. being bald makes me sad. some days are good, some are bad. some are fine. most I don’t remember - locked away.

you can’t take your things with you. how will they remember you?

there’s no punchline, other than me writing this at 34, very much alive. I guess that’s a pretty good punchline, all things considered.