grateful dead and a midwest boy, a day for the veterans.

What is it about winter months, long drives, and Bon Iver? Can you smell the evergreen? I still can.

A bee flew into the window. Its yellow and black skin lay still on the shield amidst the wind. It stays in plain sight. The first thing I think: Christ. The second: mother.

My name is Dominique. I am a child of god. Not a king of greatness. I don’t claim holiness, but I aspire for truth.

I saw arils at the store packaged in red. I thought of the mother and her many children, her many a creation. I thought of her intentions and whether or not I was apart of them.

My papa asked about my sister. And tears came to my eyes. I remembered the last thing she said to me. “Here, take it. I sprayed my perfume on it so you’ll remember me.” and I loved her, more than any heart could say “I love you.” And it was at that moment that my voice vanished, my stomach crooned and my crippled heart sank. Then she was gone; and everything became very still. My chest had become the empty void I was trying so hard to constrain. I never would have thought.

He. I remember his hair, his black curly hair. I remember his glasses, his smile, his voice.. his low sultry voice. I remember the way he thoughtfully moved his hair across his eyes, nose, then ears. I remember his uncertainty, his timid reactions and insecure replies. And I remember the look in his eyes; they spoke in ways I never thought were possible, then. They told me things I only understood with him. And then we were holding hands. And then we were sharing lips. And then we were touching skin. And then we were making breakfast for one another, buying secrets for each other, sliding spare keys onto chains for the other. He and I became nothing other than we. And we was magnificent for a while; a short while… until we turned back into I. and it all started slipping away. “We’re in this together,” I said, “we’re a team.” His constant opposing forces broke down my defenses, and that’s when the concept of ‘care’ was obliterated and completely washed away. I watched it as it drifted further and further out with the ebb and flow of shame. And I let it. With outstretched arms, my bloody fire became a quiet charcoaled burn and there was no more fuel to ignite such failure. It died.

And now, the ghost lives on. We still hold hands, share lips, touch skin, make stories, share keys, and dream together. But it’s not the same. The ghost of what it once was watches us as we scream, following us everywhere we go, reminding us of what we once had; keeping us holding on to something that lies six feet under land.