First it was my right hand, then my left. Would go dead in the middle of the night. It would last a minute. Then a couple minutes. Now four whole minutes. They say it’s a compression nerve. My elbow hurts. I have to clench and unclench my fist over and over to get it to works.

Though sometimes I am asleep on it. Sometimes I am. But most of the time it is laying flat next to me. What do I do with my time? Walk for hours. Hours. Twisting straw in hand. Thinking. There are great moments of collapsing on the bench. Tears. I pet dogs. I talk to the dogs and their owners. Things are better now.

I just write little notes in my phone.

I spend some nights screaming in a pillow.

I spend some days mulling over whether i love you was enough.

“I  knew he was going to die before I left Virginia.”

The last words I said to my dad were I love you and everyone tells me it’s enough.

At night I wander the halls and talk to him; ask if he’s proud his daughter is a successful con artist.

I picture him laughing, cigarette in hand, Wild Irish Rose in glass. 

My hands are becoming crippled and my memory is fuzzy so I figure 

I 

just 

better

fucking 

write it.

My aunt was the 12th dead family member.

It is not great to have such strong superstition in a cursed family so we begin the chant again:

be careful what you say, but more importantly be careful what you think.

They told me to write it faster than you live it but I would rather walk.

“The 13th dead”