A Note From The Author February 1st To The Author January 1st

A note from the author February 1st to author January 1st. Three weeks. That's how long it will take you to lose confidence in your ability to do things in the dark of your parents house that you've been doing off and on for 25 years, to walk from basement to bedroom without forgetting about the metal threshold in the kitchen between the tile and the hardwood, to find your glasses on your headboard to make sure house noises are just that, to go to the bathroom and not wake up the dog. And, while you are home, you will wonder why you ran away from them so often, knowing that they will die sooner than you want them to and in fact, you want them to live forever, to never face their mortality, because you remember your father on the day his mother died, the sound you try to forget of him sobbing in your mother's arms in the bedroom you all shared until you were five. You remember the waterweight your mother silently shed crying on the flight to Jamaica to bury her dad, the ones your motion sick father couldn't see with his head pressed against the side of the plane. At nine years old, you had no hankerchief to offer her, so you just squeezed her hand, and they warmed together. And, every time your brother and sisters mentioned how better you had it, how hard they were in their day, you will think "yes, but you'll have had longer with them. But, you'll still keep running, and you'll always find yourself back there having to be reminded that in the recesses of your brain rest the choking noises your father makes when he brushes his teeth, and your mother's vaccination scars, and the sweat you wake up in sometimes when the rain crashes against the roof. They'll be there long after your parents die, long after you've settled on how to split the sale of the house. They are, after all, that which makes up your blood.