You don’t know what it’s like, Anna. You want to talk about how I left you. How I left you after the accident. Well, that’s one side of the story. But you don’t know. Since you went away – since you went away, Anna – everything’s been molasses and static.
I know it’s partly my fault. I didn’t mean to get so far gone – I swear to god I mean that, and that’s on me – I made a mistake
But what you don’t know – what you don’t know, Anna – I woke up on the floor, underwater, tar and tumbling tide, and I called your name. First thing, I called your name. Nothing. I called you. Nothing. “Anna!” Nothing.
Do you have any idea what that feels like?
And now, everything is sandstorm and wax. My fingers are frozen. And it’s getting harder and harder to write.
I used to be so good with words. Books and poetry and didn’t I always know the right shapes to draw out? Notes that sounded true. I don’t know how to form the words anymore for what I want to say to you. But still, I talk and talk and talk and talk. If I use enough words, maybe I could turn up the volume on your response.
Some nights I feel confessional, and I think I tell you too much. I slam doors. I rattle dishes in the cupboard. I make you cry. You turn to me, eyes flitting here, falling there, devouring the room. You open your mouth–
Nothing.
I’m only asking for reassurance. If I could hear your side…
The least you could do is try. Instead, it’s mumbling and mumbling, cicadas and cotton, eyes darting here and there. God Anna, what are you so scared of?
I know you hate tarot. You roll your eyes. But I need answers. I pulled cards for us: The Lovers, The Hanged One. Two major arcana. See? I think they point to a hang-up in our connection. If we could start communicating again, everything would go back to how it’s supposed to be. Remember how it’s supposed to be?
That’s all I’m trying to do. I’m trying to communicate. I’m trying. What you don’t know – what you don’t know, Anna: the hardest thing I’ve ever done is scratch these words on your wall.
I’m up before you today, every day. (I can’t remember when I slept last.) I watch you stumble into the kitchen, sticky-eyed, in the jagged light. Your face is puffy. You sit down with your coffee, and, from the shadows, I see you see the cards. I see you take a sharp breath. I see you see the writing on the wall:
Anna
I
Love
you
&
Miss u
4ever
I WISH
I couLD HEAR
u LIKE you
can HEAR me.
Now everything is gasoline and fog. Your chest is heaving freight train fast, eyes are wild, table tips, mug shatters soundlessly against the wall–
“Anna! Anna!”
I can’t read your lips anymore. I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.
“Anna!”
Anna, you look like you’re screaming.
Words and photos © Jaime Greenberg, 2022
