A shameful remembrance

D.H. Ryer
D.H. Ryer
Sep 1, 2018 · 1 min read

A memory gasps in the cold room
of the night, that room we all dream
ourselves into. I awake to magazine
pages flapping, my father’s phone
voice — which is his voice — yapping
and the occasional hawking spell
from my grandmother. Where a vent-
ilator should be, there is my chair.
Where a tray of cold cod and green
beans should be, The Branch Will Not
Break is there. I am my grandmother,
hacking slowly at our family tree —
scared none of its limbs will survive
and all the fruit its yet to bear
will wither, like me, from time.

Back in my moon-blue room, the clock
reads three and I flip the switch
on my lamp for light. I choke back
a glass of water and repeat,
“I do not even have ashes
to rub into my eyes.”

D.H. Ryer

Written by

D.H. Ryer

Writing from St. Louis, Missouri.