on day one
you take a deep breath
and scream.
your mother is laughing,
your father is smiling,
and the nurse is holding you
while thinking about her next break.

you won’t remember
the musty smell of the hospital hallways
or the saltines that broke in your mother’s hands
but i do.

i will remember every moment
as if i had photographed them.

on day 284, nine months old,
you scoot around the living room
while the cat watches you from the bookshelf.
someone is shouting upstairs,
and i thank God that you don’t yet understand
what they are saying.

something shatters
and you giggle.

day 1523, four years old,
your father slams the front door for the last time.
mommy tells you he’s on vacation
or that he’s visiting grandma
but even then you realize that something’s wrong
because half the things in the house are missing
and there’s a bouquet of roses on the dining table.

the scent of cigarettes fades fast
but not fast enough
for you to forget.

you’re 4003 days old, almost eleven,
the first time someone tells you you’re useless.
you’ve never heard that before
but you know it’s not a good thing.
you come back home and cry to me,
your tears falling hard and fast,
and i am the only one who listens.

there’s a romance in empty rooms
and poetry in silence
that you discover at 4891 days
or thirteen years
and you seem to find solace
among the ghosts that haunt your mind.

on day 6570, your eighteenth birthday,
your mother and stepdad want you to celebrate with them
but you tell them that you can’t
because you’re busy falling in love.

i want to remind you
that you’re afraid of heights.

you’re in college for 1400 days with breaks in between
and you work for another 11,026.

and then you’re 22,994 days old,
a day away from 63 years.
there’s a plate of strawberries on the table,
cut to look like flowers.
a book is open in your lap,
and a pen rests in the crease between the pages.
i sit beside you.
my eyes have already worn out
and i can no longer make out the difference between b and d
but I can still see the cat that perches on the bookshelf
and the saltines in the red glass bowl
and the greying silver band around your ring finger.

your life has been etched in wrinkled skin and aching joints
and it is a story that you do not care to tell
but i have been there for all 22,994 days,
551,856 hours,
or 33,111,360 minutes.

if you ever forget,
i can remind you.