Miranda Crowley

Amy

The last thing on Amy’s “to do list” said: buy more milk.
It was the only thing left unchecked by Monday morning.
It was the last thing she had ever written. It is the
sweetest poetry I have ever heard her write. Missing her
has made me literally romanticize her grocery lists. Literally
wander the dairy aisle of the deli hoping I’d find her there.
Literally, miss her.

Now that she is finally gone, I realize that I have always
mourned Amy. Always spoken about her in the past tense,
always looked half through her, always had the eulogy
prepared in my head. From the moment I saw her, she was
already fading, already shifting. A rotting thing inside a casing
of flesh. Her death was so damn slow. An existence without
her is so damn long.

On the morning she died I sat at my vanity and watched my
skin peel back with green. I felt the sewer water spill over
my cheeks, burning a landfill of missing her down my chin.
The tears kind of smelled like her. My face in the mirror kind of
looked like hers. The wet spots on my shirt were kind of like her
freckles.

If she were here, she’d beg me not to cry over spilt milk.
But I will never be rid of this stain.

©2016 by the author. Used with permission.

About Miranda Crowley
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