by Gabrielle Barnes
You said when you and dad took me when I was five, I cried and cried on space mountain
You sat behind me with your hand over my eyes even though it was already pitch black
Even though it reminded me of the nights where I was alone and I needed you
I would scream for you in my magenta room, in it’s swelling color dad painted for me
Like a womb
I would scream for you there in the middle of the night,
At first nothing leaving my mouth
Just hot panicked air
In another fever dream
Until finally you would come in
My voice floated to yours through dimmed hallways where you stored boxes of generations of family pictures
All their sepia stained faces and traumas waiting to be opened up
The boxes we put on top of my bed during hurricane katrina
On my butterfly blanket
How their faces sat above, untouched, safe from molded damp carpet
Pine leaves draped gently atop Pop’s and Nana’s wedding pictures
Their hopeful smiles from the fifties before they hated each other
You’d climb into bed with me
Saving me from my nightmares
From your nightmares
You’d squeeze my hand three times
Twenty five years later, I’m sitting behind you
You’re wearing mickey mouse ears
You’re wearing a heart monitor
You’re laughing at nothing as we walk through Tomorrowland
Through chaotic cartooned robots, limp french fries, gray cotton candy
You won’t stop talking
I remember there being twinkling lights on space mountain
I remember there being clouds
And Saturn
And Jupiter
I remember your hair was darker
I remember your eyes were quieter
I remember you smelling like clinique happy
This time
Space mountain is nothingness
There is no venus, no mars, no pluto
Its just us on earth
In Florida, fighting in rental cars
While you eat magical mushrooms in the back seat
You’re screaming
You’re laughing
You’re crying
Your bleach blonde hair is shooting straight up
My hands are over your neon green eyes
They are blood shot from crying
They’re putting Nana in assisted living
She won’t be able to sleepover anymore
In my magenta pink room where her wedding picture sat on my butterfly blanket
Unscathed by the storm
Strong and resilient and unmoving
You’re scared you’re losing her
You go silent
I wonder if your big, breaking heart
The one you say beats for David and me
Is giving out
As we plummet downward and downward into black
The air smells of asphalt and rain like after the storm
I’m forgetting the sun’s out
That we’re in Tomorrowland
Once we come back up, I see those twinkly lights I remembered
The ones that told me I was safe
Like my bedroom door opening to the hallway
To you coming in to safe me
Faded, old Christmas lights
Scattered about in front of us
I yell Mom
Like I used to in the middle of the night
Across hallways full of generations
You squeeze my hand three times
I love you too I say
You laugh loudly and yell back
“This is just how I remembered it!”
