*
We
remember the caution tape
wrapped
around the space you left
like
a wavering halo in the early morning
sun,
the congealed stain red like a bad mark on
the
sidewalk that still wore your hair down
without
your head, the silence of lips and chin
to
concrete in one precise frozen moment—
harmless
as a leaned over whisper to the earth,
“hello”
or maybe, “goodbye”—just before
the
concrete kissed you back
*
We
remember the low hum
of
college campus and Cobb County police
cruisers,
news vans, radio talk shows heard
beneath
the blasting heat of cars idle in traffic
for
hours, the notebooks and study guides
sprawled
out open like your body
in
the laps of commuter students late
for
8 A.M. mid-terms, motionless,
an
unexcused absence
*
We
remember the investigation
the
search for identification/motivation/explanation
for
any potential culprit outside of academic stress
to
push you beyond those guardrail limits
to
somewhere/anywhere/but here, the disparate
reports
of your gender/age/the time/ and distance
of
your sudden plummet down six (or was it nine?)
stories
of Central Parking Deck
*
We
remember the possibility
of
suicide never mentioned by the college
your
fall chalked up only to a vague outline—
to
foul play, to accidental slip, to being under
the
influence of something other than yourself—
with
still no word from the toxicology reports
no
way to catch you in mid-air like a cold
*
We
remember the gossip
spoken
over breakfast in-between lectures
echoed
throughout the bathroom stalls
carved
out dialogues in real-time threads:
“just failed the fuck outta that test”
“better go find a parking deck”
*
We
remember the celebrity
of
your person, how suddenly everybody knew you
loved
you in secret, sat behind you in class
missed
the back of your head in the exact
opposite
way the sidewalk could not
*
We
remember the denial
of
death by your mother, who heard your voice late at night
just
before bed, picked up and held you like
a
child in the silver fillings of her teeth
*
We
remember the lone photo
of
you used over and over again, of how quickly a human body
of
art may convert to a still life
*
We
remember everything
except
for your
name*
*Miranda
L. W., (3/24/1989 – 3/15/2010)
Stephen Wack is tonight's featured reader at Word of Mouth open mic, Wednesday November 2. Sign-up for open mic begins at 7 pm and readings start at 8 pm upstairs at The Globe, corner of Lumpkin and Clayton Streets in downtown Athens.
