In the Absence
I wonder at these children who die so far from home
these boys and girls taught
to load or break down a gun in the middle of the night
to aim for the dead spot in the middle of a stranger’s forehead
to forget all of the good things their mothers taught them when they were young
especially “don’t kill that, you know better,” and
“you’re a nice boy/girl—you need to learn to play nice, too,”
taught to take all of that faith in their character, all of the goodness instilled
through dedicated parenting, love,
late night kisses to chase the nightmares away,
I wonder how hard it is
to make these children forget who they are
and where they came from.
Off the Record
My best friend’s mom came back from Vegas
unexpected, said she needed her room for a few days. Her room was now
my room, I was renting it from my friend
because her mom had left and she needed help making the rent.
I had nowhere to go, so I moved into the living room
where my best friend had her stuff, we had to squeeze onto the couch
she used for a bed, her feet by my face and mine by hers so we’d fit.
It was kind of fun, like we were kids and it was a sleepover
except we both had to find some way to get real sleep
because we had jobs in the morning.
Her mom complained endlessly
about the rubber air mattress I used as a bed in my room
the room that was now her room, asked why we didn’t have
any real furniture, especially
since we were both adults and we both had jobs,
we should get our shit together.
This lasted about a week before the fights started, my best friend
told her mom she should get a hotel room, she had money
she’d made lots of money in Vegas, she was always bragging about it.
“Enough to get a boob job,” her mom shot back, proudly showing her boobs in profile
under her tight white tank top. “You gotta spend money to make money.”
She was a prostitute or something in Vegas, we’d gathered
but had to leave town because she’d been stealing money from her clients
and someone was after her.
“He’ll never find me here,” she’d reassure us
winking as she said it with one tired, puffy eye.
One day, I came home from work to find
my best friend’s mom had left
unexpected. Stuff was missing from the apartment:
an old silver candleholder that had belonged to my best friend’s grandmother,
some of her jewelry, the really nice cowboy boots her boyfriend had gotten her
a few months before for Christmas.
“Check your room,” my best friend said wearily, lighting a cigarette and
taking it all in stride, it was just a part of it all for her, it had happened before.
“Make sure she didn’t take any of your shit.”
About the Author
Holly Day’s writing has recently appeared in Analog SF, Talking River, and New Plains Review, and her published books include Music Theory for Dummies and Music Composition for Dummies. She currently teaches classes at The Loft Literary Center in Minnesota, Hugo House in Washington, and the Indiana Writers Center.
