You are the thing that keeps me up at night, but my eyes are dry. I do not cry. You, you, you, always you. On and on it goes, or should I say went? Like dependency, or addiction; like your addiction (we know). You died and faded, yet these are the seven things I still remember about you:
1) You were kind.
To my mother and to me. Yet, to my brothers, you were always angry. Angry for their youth, for their command over her attention. Angry for their demand for our mother’s affection. Did you ever regret making them feel that rejection?
2) You worked hard.
Day and night you worked and tried to offer us your support. A father figure: it figures you would leave. You worked hard indeed, to cover up your dirty deeds (we know). It was not greed that kept my mother around but love for a you that had already drowned. When you saw my mother on her knees, did you even bother to listen to her pleas?
3) You were funny.
Until you weren’t. Until a joke turned to dope, leaving your mind burnt. Burned up, smoke thick in the air. Just like the veins in your arms (we know), but you didn’t care. Not a wisp of shame, only the claim that you were not to blame for not remaining the same. Did you still think that when your final days came?
4) You loved her.
My mother, that is. You loved the idea of what she hoped you could be. Yet those dreams turned to ash, just like your body (we know). You ignored who you should be and lost who you could be. Would you not agree?
5) You felt guilty (we know).
For a time. Until time made you feel like slime, so you’d take another hit in your downtime. Just a little bit, “it’s not a crime,” just enough to not have to admit to it in the daytime. Until nighttime when you’d try to climb back into our mother’s bed. As if she’d so easily acquit. Did you think you could commit to that pastime for a lifetime?
6) You missed us.
The day we went away you begged us to stay. You couldn’t fight it alone, but she couldn’t condone what it was you were covered with the cheap stench of your cologne. You brought it on yourself, and with each shot, your wrought body edged closer to destruction. Did you even try to fight its seduction?
7) You are dead.
Attention was not your only addiction in the end. You feared withdrawal, so it was us who withdrew. There was no way for us to break through to this new you. No intervention or any good intention would ever get through, this we knew. That is what it came down to, beginning anew, all because of you. Did you ever wonder what could have happened if it had been sobriety you chose to pursue?
Of course not. Because you’re dead. So that is one less question left unanswered. We know you, or I should say we knew you. Not because you are gone but because we did not know this person, this shadow. We know, we know, we know. But did you know we knew about you?
From my point of view, you got what was due. I have no clue what drew my mother to you. Your death was something we could not forgo; it was the only way for her to finally let go. Seven things I remember about you, each a blow. Seven things you put us through. Seven years we blew on the Jake Show, on you.
You are the thing that keeps me up at night. Staying up past twilight, in the moonlight, until the starlight turns to sunlight long past dawn. On and on it goes, even now that you’re gone.
Kaitlyn Young is a current BA/MA dual degree student at DePaul University, studying Creative Writing and Publishing. Her focus is on poetry and short fiction, emphasizing addiction and mental illness within her writings. While Kaitlyn has no previously published work, her orange cat Pineapple (aka her muse) is an avid listener and her biggest fan.