When I feel melancholic, I need to hear my grandmother’s voice. Needles pricking at my tear ducts.
011, 7, 495, 914, 4223
Every number has a different noise.
Sometimes, Oftentimes I feel like crying when I call her. Tonight I didn’t even hear her.
I’ve never been able to hold a conversation with my grandfather for more than 6 minutes. Today it was 20.
There’s nothing to soothe. I am all salve and no tea.
I am honey and lemon and suckle.
I push my feet underneath my paisley blanket, thinking it’ll warm up my boney toes. It doesn’t, until I catwrap them.
The overhead light is on and it’s too bright, but gets darker if I stop my eyes from focusing on it. Peripheral vision makes me focus on a bright red light emanating from its’ position on my giant heater. It is foreign. No wood, no paint: metal.
Like a nazi near Moscow.
We talk about the weather or their health. My grandmother is anxious. He is on a balancing beam.
They haven’t seen snow yet but are on a break from teaching for some government-sponsored holiday for a week.
I haven’t told them I am waiting for Cuba.
They haven’t seen my new, short hair.
I want to build caves for them made of kittens and yarn, and doctors wading through the yarn to dote on them like lovers. I want to play card games.
I want to be the Ass.
I want cold tea.
I want a peaceful sleep.