18 years.
I turned 19 on June 8th. To celebrate, I took my friends to my favorite pizza joint. I brought my Polaroid camera and took some pictures with them, and drove to a Circle K afterward to get some slushies. It’s a great day.
June 9th.
I get to work and it’s going well. I work with two of my favorite people and I’ve spent more of the shift laughing than anything else. I go to lunch.
“You aren’t in trouble or anything, but when you get home, mom and dad need to talk to you about something.”
I read it and I have to text my sister back. A million questions.
“Is it important?”
“Very.”
“Is it good important or bad important?”
“Bad. Don’t tell them I told you, you’re not supposed to know about this.”
“You’re making it sound like someone died. Did they?”
“No one died.”
“Why can’t you tell me what this is about?”
“It’s not good to read over text.”
I shrink.
My break ends and I head back out to the floor. I’m standing there and that’s all I do for a minute, and my co-workers notice and they ask how my break went and how I’m doing. I can’t lie, I can’t keep a straight face. I tell them everything. I tell them that something is wrong but that my sister won’t give me anything. I say that nothing has been wrong at home. There had been some hassle around my birthday because of issues getting me a cake and that I suspected my parents were mad at me.
“Sound like a divorce,” one of my co-workers said to me. I shook my head.
“It can’t be that,” I said. “They’ve been together through so much, you don’t understand. I haven’t noticed anything along the lines of divorce, and I feel like I definitely would if that’s what’s going on.”
“You think you’re moving again?” asked my other co-worker, and at that, I lowered my head. I’ve moved at least 7 times throughout my life. Just during Covid we spent a 5-month stint in northern Utah before coming back. The idea blinded me. I could hear their voices sigh and tell me we’re moving and that I’ll have to find a new job and say goodbye to my girlfriend and promise to come back whenever I get the chance. I reflect on the past week, I realize the reality of the situation.
“That sounds like that could be it,” I whisper out in defeat. I work in the center of the store, and right in the middle of the chaos of a Friday, I try not to cry. I try to forget the times I’ve moved, how everyone will react, how little time I’ve spent with so many people that I miss so dearly. I blame my eyes on my allergies and take a pill that I keep stowed in one of the cabinets at the booth.
“Look, man, even if you have to leave, I hope that this happens for a reason and that you prosper in your new environment.” I thank him, and I sniffle.
“Thanks, man.” I sigh. “You make a lot of sense. When bad things happen my dad will stare out the kitchen window. I’ve seen him do it before when someone close to the family died. My sister told me that no one died, but I’ve seen him do that again lately. He’s been sad looking, like yesterday. We played soccer in the house but he looked like something was bothering him, he was barely moving, but I didn’t want to say anything because I thought he was mad at me, and I didn’t want to hear about that while we were playing soccer.”
It’s a hard shift after that. I’m consumed by an outrageous plague of anxiety and both my co-workers jokingly tell me to give my sister a good beating when I get home because she’s scared me to death. It makes me laugh, they both get me to laugh in their own ways, and with their help I’m able to finish off the shift without much affliction. They stepped up to help me with any extra stress that could’ve come to accumulate, they cracked some jokes and even laughed at mine. I finally got feeling okay.
I clock out for the day at 5 since I opened, and when I get to the car, I then turn on my phone and look at my messages. My sister’s messaged me 3 times.
“Never mind,” she said. “It’s not going to happen anymore, they changed their minds and don’t want to tell you. When you get home I’ll still tell you, though.”
I’m able to breathe. I’m able to drive home and not worry that my anxiousness will get me thrown into a wreck on the commute back. In a lengthy voice-to-text note, I tell my sister that I appreciate the heads up but that it killed my mentality through the shift, and that if anything of the sort ever happens again to let me find out on my own. A couple minutes later, she texts back apologizing. I accept it.
I get home. I turn off the car and grab all my belongings, and once I put them in my room, I head over to my parents’ room. They texted as they heard me come in to head to their room.
I step inside and shut the door to keep out the cats. My parents are sat on the bed, my sister sat down on my dad’s office chair. They look like they’ve spent some time crying, even my dad. I’ve never seen my dad cry. I’m in the room, and I remember that my sister said they weren’t going to tell me what all was going on, but seeing them all in the room, I feel as though I’m about to hear it. But I don’t.
“You have a good day, love?”
“Yeah, it was okay,” I say.
“The cake’s ready at Cold Stone so we’re going to go pick it up in a minute. We had them write the thing you wanted on the top of it, crazy.” My mom said, and I chuckled, still anxious. “Just wanted to tell you that we’re getting your cake, I know you were wondering about that.”
“Oh okay, thank you,” I say. And I go to leave. But I look at my sister, and when before I had only seen her in my peripheral, this time I see her directly. She’s slumped in her chair, not crying or anything, but gloomy. I have never seen her look more depressed. It takes me a second to leave because I notice what a toll this secret has taken on her. I’ve never seen my sister look this way before, but there, in that chair, she was broken.
I leave the room and head to the bathroom. I’m sat down and I’m wondering, all over again, what it could be that I’m missing out on. What does my dad, my mom, my sister, everyone in the whole house know about that I don’t? And why does everyone look like they’re recovering from the same thing even though no one’s died and we’re apparently not moving?
A minute goes by, and my dad texts again.
“Can you come back to our room, please?” Butterflies. I can’t even laugh about it; when he said that, every emotion that I came under all day hit me back all at once. My body jittered out for a second and my head began to hurt. I knew in a few short moments what was about to happen.
I finish up. I wash my hands with soap and I step out and into my parents’ room, shutting the door behind me once again. When before they seemed lighthearted enough to be just about to step into public to pick up my cake, they now looked serious. It was time for business. I had no idea what room I had stepped myself into.
“Something has been going on for the past few weeks, you may have seen me act different or mama act different, I don’t know if you have, but we wanted to talk to you about what’s been going on.” I swallow. “Um..” My mom finishes his sentence.
“Mama almost left,” she says in a bluntness I’ve never heard before. I don‘t process what she’s said.
“To where?” I ask, and she slightly laughs. At this, I see my dad tear up, as he must have not too long ago, and he takes his glasses off.
“No, no. I..” She sighs, and something in me breaks as I stand still to listen.
“For the past few weeks I have had a lot of issues, and there’s been so much going on that I’ve had doubts with our relationship. And I’ve prayed and I’ve talked to my cousin and we’ve gotten closer.. and I was going to leave and move in with my cousin. He’s just getting out of a divorce and I got attached and that mixed with me being unhappy in the relationship, I wanted to just leave, and I was going to. Up until today..”
“We told my parents last night,” my dad cut her off. “They can’t believe me. I couldn’t believe it.” He looked over at my sister, she now having tears in her eyes. “She couldn’t believe it. None of your other siblings could believe it.”
“She woke me up yesterday crying,” my sister spoke up, talking about our youngest sister.
“Your brother was crying, and he looked up at me today and he asked me the one question we’ve all been asking this whole time, ‘Why?’ Why? How could this happen, how could she do this? And I didn’t have an answer. That’s what my parents asked me, how could this happen, and I had to tell them that I don’t know.” My mom, three feet to the side of him, was crying, and seeing my sister cry made my dad cry. I have never seen my dad cry. I cannot stand to cry in front of others, and I stand there, and nothing that anyone says processes. I’m standing there like a fucking scarecrow, only one that looks like his birthday time has been cut so incredibly short so suddenly that he’s reduced to what he’d look like without a face.
My mom talks and she apologizes, and she talks about her feelings but they don’t make sense to me and I cannot take in any of her words. She cries, my sister cries, and my dad cries. And everyone is incredibly sorry.
“We’ve been hiding this from you because we didn’t want to ruin your birthday,” she tells me, and I understand. “Today was officially going to be the day I was going to get things packed and I was going to leave. But.. I changed my mind. I want to stay with you guys. I want to be here. I can’t leave you.” Her tears come again.
“We were going to tell her parents tomorrow,” says my dad, and he shakes his head. “This..” He has tears coming again, and I have never seen my dad cry. “This is going to make us closer in our relationship,” he gets out as he’s holding everything back. And he hugs my mom, and I just watch as they hug, and I watch as my dad hugs me, and I watch as my mom hugs me. And I watch as they say I’m good to go and that they’ll leave for the cake. I head to my room and I lay myself down. The heat from the sun comes through my window, and I feel it but I don’t understand it, it seems.
I cry. I cry the whole time they’re out. I haven’t cried so much in years. Years. I used to keep track of reasons I’d cry, but this would take all the reasons for a spin. They get the cake, and of course it takes a while. But I’m still crying when they get back. I’m still hurting and wondering why like we all have. My brother in his bed just 6 feet from mine walks over and gives me a hug, and he tells me, “Mommy isn’t leaving us, Yousuf.” And he’s happy. He’s not crying. He feels safe again. But me, I’m hearing this for the first time, ans all my memories as their child and as an older brother flood back in, and all the pictures of me as a baby come to mind, and I give my brother a hug, and I cannot stop crying.
I love my parents. I love my family. I love the imperfections of life and I love who I am. But I have the hardest time processing change, and I have always been riddled with an overwhelming sense of needing protection and some sort of resemblance to what the past used to be. I have always need a friendly hand to hold, a kind person to talk to, and a healthy community where I can remain ignorant because I’m young and trying my hardest to be good. I can handle certain things and inconveniences, I can handle change sometimes and I can adapt to my surrounding, but these moments, these things that happened just weeks ago, will never fucking escape me. I have been on the edge of my seat sense, and I am in worry that at any moment, I family will cease to be what it has always been; The parents, the family, the life I love.
Escalators
Have you ever seen someone fall down an escalator? It’s fucking awful, every bit of it. Ever seen how much a human head bleeds? Chances are if you see the reality behind these falls and the aftermath, the rush of people storming over to save someone’s life, you may think twice taking those magic stairs. You may be more careful. I hope to God that you are.
Three days ago, I get back from my lunch break, and someone’s fallen down the up escalator. I haven’t seen the footage, I didn’t see him fall, but there was an elderly man who missed a step, fell backwards, and hit his head hard enough that he started bleeding heavy. When I got back from lunch, they got a defibrillator out, the escalator had been stopped and blocked off as well as the nearby stairway, and right at the top of the escalator, they had him kept as well as they could while the paramedics showed up.
Apparently, no one thought he was going to make it. He was bleeding so hard from his head that he bled through two different shirts they pulled out for him. The guy who brought over the defibrillator thought he was gone, our LP thought he was gone, and even my head manager thought he was gone. By some miracle, the paramedics came just in time, and using a defibrillator of their own, they got the guy back to consciousness. They asked if he knew where he was, what day it was, how many fingers were they holding up, everything. He was breathing and moving his eyes with a pulse when they carried him away on a stretcher. Somehow he survived.
There was a mess to clean, for sure. Have you ever seen how much a head bleeds? Through two shirts, this guy bled, and before the shirts had even come out, his blood had trailed down and hit every single fucking step on the escalator. Every single one. After the guy fell and stopped halfway down, they had it ride him back up to the top so they’d have room to help him out. And while it took him back up, he bled on every stair.
I helped our maintenance guy clean everything. So many streaks of blood, the process took us upwards of half an hour if not longer. It was brutal, and it was reminder, seeing that there, that blood is life. How much of his life had left him on those stairs?
Finally we got it done. He sprayed any small bits we couldn’t fully get to with chemicals to at least prevent pathogens, and the job was done.
So we’re finishing and an older guy comes up to us, seeing that we’ve turned on the escalator again, and asks if we’re getting it open. The maintenance guy said it was good to go, stepped out of the way, and the guy got going up the escalator. I look up to the top.
There’s a fucking sign at the top of the stairs, and it’s right in the guy’s way. If you haven’t experienced that slow motion effect where alarm bells start ringing and everything feels slow as you mentally piece together the unraveling scenes, know the rush when you realize that you are the only fit person that can do something. The hit that you have to do something, or the guy that’s going up could get hurt just as bad as the guy you just saved. I have never been so afraid of the well-being of someone that’s not my immediate family.
I threw the escalator key to the ground and ran up the stairs faster than I’ve ever ran up a flight of stairs before, I grabbed the sign and moved it out of the way before the guy hit it. He thought it was funny.
“Show-off,” he said, and laughed. I laughed too.
When you’re genuinely scared in a setting of people who are simply living their lives, they will never understand you. It’s like complaining of migraines in a room of people who have never had one. When you fear for someone’s life, there is only their life, and the only person that can prevent them from safety is you. I ran not because I had to but because I was afraid. Because what if I didn’t? I wouldn’t be able to sleep that night or even now if I allowed that guy to try and move the sign himself and not fall down.
Please, for the love of yourself and others, please be safe on escalators. I’m not saying that guy wasn’t, but bad things can happen if you aren’t careful, and it’s not worth the pain of falling down. The escalator will not stop if you bleed, it will stop when you get to the top.
What is tomorrow? May I ever know
What is tomorrow? May I ever know
What is fine is fine day by day
I’ll wake, I’ll go get ready
Be ready, and head to work
I’ll work, work’s fine and all
But it’ll end, and that’ll be all
I’ll clock out, leave and get to the car
I’ll turn in on, turn my music on
And drive off reflecting and pondering
What is tomorrow? May I ever know
What is tomorrow? May I ever know
What is fine is fine day by day
When I arrive, I’ll undo my shoes
Change into different pants and lay loose
Legs land at the foot of my bed
Long past dinner; still hungry, I head
Downstairs to fridge for some bite to eat
Eat some food then it’s back up to see
My parents, older now, laying in bed
Sleeping, sleeping early than late
No chance for me to say goodnight
I head back to my room, whole house is quiet
It’s me now with my thoughts, and I wonder
What is tomorrow? May I ever know
What is tomorrow? May I ever know
What is fine stays fine day by day
But when it’s time to sleep, there is none
And when it’s time for peace, there is none
Every night can only go wrong
Every day can only go as long
As what we stay up for
And as I lay and think of all these things
I realize what’s been the trouble;
My grandfather, weak, two hours away
Laying the same position as I
But weaker, older, more reliant
For him there is only tomorrow, and still he wonders,
“What is tomorrow? May I ever know”
What is tomorrow? May I ever know
What is fine stays fine day by day
But pain. You’ll hear it and know it
But pain on the surface is pain
Pain buried is hardened and often constrained
And woken alive, an unpleasant burden
Especially when in need of sleep
When he’s in need of sleep
I cannot imagine being there
And when I go to visit I scare
He won’t remember what I’m doing there
And when I visit I scare
Someday myself I won’t remember
And these visits aren’t always in person
Instead, when I try to sleep
And when I try to sleep, I wonder
What is tomorrow? May I ever know
I shouldn’t say his name online so I won’t, but you’ll know what you needed to know about him by the end of this.
He was a father. He was my dad’s best friend. When I was young, my father told me that if anything happened to he and my mom, we wouldn’t be going to live with my grandparents, we would be going with him and his wife and their newborn baby girl. I was told he was my uncle. He wasn’t by any means related to me, but he was so trustworthy and kind and genuine that my dad trusted him and my mom trusted him more than my mom’s parents. Think about that.
He owned a couple properties on the street he lived. My dad talked to him about the real estate business one day, and within 10 years he was almost a million dollars richer. He built up his home, made it real nice, and when the right time came, he had a kid. I’ll always remember his smile.
Two years ago, he was out driving, stopped at a red light. He couldn’t have known this, but up ahead was a car maneuvering around others, at least double if not triple the speed limit. Cop cars followed behind him. But stopped at that red light, he was in the way. He was no longer a person but an obstacle. His car was no longer a vehicle, it was an inconvenience. With no warning, no signs of trouble, he was hit dead on in the front driver’s side. He did not make it. He died on impact.
The guy who killed him? He’s alive. Barely hurt him. He’s in jail; only committed 3rd degree murder so he may be out sooner than expected. Who knows. He’s alive.
But my uncle, one of the best men my father knew and one of my favorite adults to be around, died, and while he won’t be back, his impression and his imprint still strike hard. There will never be another of him. There will only be him.
When the news came, I had to see my dad in pain. I had to see him look out the kitchen window, we having moved away from him and his wife, and he just stood there for well over an hour. I can’t imagine what he was thinking.
People like him ought to be remembered. They better be. They are not inconveniences. They are not obstacles. They are uncles. They are fathers and husbands and all-around beautiful people. The best in the world. The best we’ve got.
Beauty. They are beauty. They are everything in the most perfect form.
Man
“Let me in the house, I know you’re in there.”
I’m something between drunk and insane, and I know how I’m coming off. Body swaying side to side, I can feel my tongue come out of my mouth and dangle out into the night air as I breathe heavy. My eyes must be open wide.
This is my house. My parents are home. They’re drinking themselves or watching a movie or something, it’s not late enough to sleep. Only 11pm. Only.
Knock. Knock, knock, knock. I yell out again, “Let’s go, open up!” I kick the door once and move back my hair. I’m laughing, I’m hysterical. I’m drunk.
I see a doorbell. It’s just the right of the door, and I analyze it. Wait a minute. There’s a doorbell.
Wait a minute.
I knock again.
My house doesn’t have a doorknob. Ugh. I spit on the welcome mat.
Damn it, mom. Damn it, dad. Open up.
It’s not my house.
I’m done. I quit. I walk on. Have to find my goddamn house.
The house next door looks like mine. Maybe.