Colors

My pink and white bike. My mom's yellow sweater. My brothers rosy cheeks. My baby sisters dark hair. She's in a pink onesie. My dads silver glasses. I think he has a white shirt on. Definitely wearing light blue Levi's. The street in the winter sunset looks blue and hazy. My fingertips are slightly purple. The white tire on my pink and white bike still spinning eerily. The brown gate to our house scratches my arm. Our once tan house looks grey in the blue haze. Mikelle's blonde hair flying through the wind. I can see her dirty blonde hair. I can see her teeth and her big smile. I can see her blue jeans being a tad too short for her long legs. They are flared jeans. Flashes of gray and blue haunt me. Pictures flood my mind like an old movie reel. Bits and pieces are fuzzy but the colors are vivid, they are shouting memories at me. The dog leash is red. But what color was the dog? I close my eyes and picture my pink and white bike gliding across the street. The dog is golden brown. Their faces turning to me when their door opens. I see a dark yellow table cloth on a brown table. I remember the brown bench next to it. He comes out to help me. His hair is sandy brown. I think I see a red shirt. The street seems miles long and very blue and hazy. The house is glowing with a yellow hue, every light on as the house fills with more people. We have blue green carpet. I stare at the carpet my parents stand on. I see shiny black shoes. I see a silver badge. My moms face is pale. The light is so bright. I'm squinting into the bright white light of our kitchen. I blink and suddenly I'm in my room. It's dark. I don't bother turning on the light. My white and pink laminate floors need swept. I move my sheer pink curtain, and pull up the off white blinds, stained from the sun. Yellow ribbons are covering the dull brown, leafless tree. A big purple bow sits next to a large poster. Blue background. Colorful stripes of blue, green, and pink. Green headband. I can faintly see the red shirt she is wearing while riding my pink and white bike. The light fades. The colors lose their intensity. Everything becomes dull and muddy.

"Tell us about that January 2nd 1999" "What do you remember about that day?" "Walk us through what you remember"  I try to put into elegant words what I remember. I try to form sentences and memories that make sense. But it's only flashes. I don't remember details before I left her on the street. I don't remember much after the police were called. Everything goes dark. I wrote this to explain what is going through my mind every time I get asked these questions.

The Spot

It's hard to stand where I stand.
Nobody stands here with me.
Nobody feels the way I do.                             
Nobody knows what I see.
It's my point of view.
It's my version of things.
Nobody stands in my spot but me.
We are all affected.
We all feel the grief.
We all feel and cope differently.
Don't tell me what to do.
Don't tell me what to say.
I've been standing in this spot alone.
Ever since that day.
This spot you must know
Proves life isn't fair.
But despite this tragedy
I will not sit in despair.
Proudly I stand.
This spot that has been created
From more than just land.
It is filled with memories and strength.
It contains anxiety and dread.
This place where my demons are fed.
My spot was built this way you see
On the life altering day she left me.