elevator

I can’t find my face cream. The Sherief in me says I shouldn’t sleep without putting it on. The Sherief in me says go to bed, you’re tired. That’s just it. Now that you’ve moved and you live somewhere else, I don’t know what the Sherief in me says anymore.

Down the hall is the bathroom we share. Shared? No, we still share it. Neutral yellow and green tones are sponged onto the wall above the marble tiling. Mom and Dad chose the marble; we didn’t care.

I look left. The shower head. I’d always know you were home when the shower setting would be different when I turned on the water. I knew you were home when I saw your car in the driveway all those summers ago. But I really knew it when I heard the hiss of your setting. The hiss of what we shared. A room that was yours and mine.

Most people who came to the house wondered why the two boys didn’t share the bathroom and I be the one to get my own, since I’m the girl. Because Tammer’s room is small, and it’s only fair is the reason we’d give anyone who asked. The real reason was counter intuitive and not one hundred percent logical. But we didn’t care.

When you were home, the shower made a soft swish instead of the lazy glurp that I used. I don’t ever want to switch to my setting. I’ll use yours so I feel like you’re here. I’ll be you.

The tough one. The responsible. I’ll have to be older now. There’s no one to tell me.

I was wandering around the house, looking for my face cream, walking up and down the same hallway. The light bulbs shine on the wood, each moving with me as I walk back to my room, the blurry trails of light guiding me.

I turn off the light. No face cream. I made that decision myself.

My tired body sinks into the blankets. To my right is the bottle cap sitting on my night table. Without my permission, my hand grabs it. In the dark, my thumb rigidly goes over it, stiffly, like an elevator acknowledging each floor with a beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. And then I’m there. Here.

bottle cap

I just remember thinking that this is how it was. This is how it will be.I walked up the stairs, holding it together. I feel the familiar warmth of the wood below my feet as I walk the ever familiar path to my room. There was so much to be done. I walk in and spot a bottle cap in my room. This little memory came back to me, bringing with it a deep reminiscent sadness. This was me remembering you. Remembering everything you made it possible for me to do. You made it possible for it to be okay for us to live and experience things, even if Mom and Dad didn’t always agree. You were the pioneer of the offbeat path, of all things new. I looked back at my hand and the metal edges were digging into my fingers. Did I grab it that tightly?

I could feel the sadness not anywhere in particular, just vague and hard to explain. The metal made a mark on my skin. You were gone. The permanence of the word bore into me. Gone. Gone.

departure

The moment I realized you were leaving, my hand was taking out shirts and socks from the dryer. I remember thinking about how you were probably trying to get everything washed so you could move out. And I remember thinking this might be the last piece of clothing I take out of the dryer. Later you'll have your own dryer, and this will be the dryer at your parent's house. I just remember feeling something as I took the white shirt out and put Adam's shirt in to be washed. He spilled something on it at your going away party.

This might be the last time I feel like I can play the irresponsible teenager role. As you move, I'm given less space to not worry about others. Your leave forces my growing up.

I don't want to sleep. This is the last time you'll truly live here. If I sleep I'll have to acknowledge it all.

You can tell a lot about a person depending on what they say to someone before they leave. Aunt Farhah says a phrase that doesn't really make sense and then laughs at it loudly while you politely smile and graciously nod at her.

I didn't think it would hurt. I just didn't think, so it wouldn't hurt.

I wanted to talk to you about some things. I feel like I should. Tomorrow may be the time. But it might be one of those days.

It's gonna be one of those days that lags on into the next. The whole day mom and dad will reassure us telling us this is a good thing and it will be good. But we all know.

Tammer, Dad and I stand outside waving to the guests. Once their cars leave, this is over officially. Once those Goodyears hit the last piece of gravel, it's over. My eyes well up. I can feel everything that I feel coming outside so everyone can see it. Damn bodily functions. I stare outside, never wanting to admit that I'm crying. I can feel someone walk behind me. Tammer walks in, doesn't say anything, but just hugs me. Just really hugs me. He says almost nothing. Softly, I can hear the words "don't be sad" but it doesn’t feel like he says them, it feels like they were emitted off of his body.

Dad comes out, gives me a hug. He's like the zamboni after the big game. Tammer's there for major cleanup, and Dad is there to help me regain my wit like a newborn deer. I feel his hand on my shoulder, arm wrapped around me.
"As if you're not gonna cry right now." There it is. Welcome back sarcasm. He looks at me, his eyes permanently glossy. We're all rubbing down something that's bound to come out soon. It's like a rock over a flowing hose. Any second we all know what's going to happen.

Our family fades into the family room, transitioning from scene to scene with a fluidity that is constant. We're constantly aware of our relation to one another, and we shift together, like stars or planets in an orbit.

Sherief opens his gifts. After shave. Moisturizer. Money. They want him to be a real man. And I want them to stop asking him to be. Because I can't have that. I just can't do it.

There's a silence after he finishes where we all feel a heaviness. This presence. We're not sure if it's regret or if it's just a thing that no one's made a worth for. This very evasive feeling. A somewhat deep-pitted heaviness.

After he's done, he lies down on the couch. Looking into his eyes; there's a dark blue that isn't usually there. His eye lids lazily force over his eyes. He's tired, and he knows what's coming. It's really gonna happen. Everything impending.

I really can't believe it was tomorrow.
And now it is tomorrow.
Technically, today.