The garden still sings you, the walls still cough you

This was my first ever submission to a literary magazine, and also my first ever rejection. I decided to share it here, untouched. The editor sent me a very nice email, hoping my piece could find a good home. So here it goes, in the most welcoming writing home. 

I scream from the top of my lungs/What’s going on? Roaring 4 Non Blondes in the garden, were you talking about yourself, screaming from the top of your lungs, as long as they could bear it?

Sometimes, you feel like my imaginary cousin. I’m hallucinating growing up with you. Side by side. Mirror opposites. Tall, wide-faced, loud-laughing, blonde-curled you, small, big-eyed, talking to plushies, brown-pigtailed me. My first friend, my childhood bully – lying in my bed at night, the bustling of parties that excluded me pricking my ears, the opposite of a lullaby.

At the time, my teen brain couldn’t fathom how hard it would be to drape your absence in tin-foiled forgiveness. How much I would long for your resented presence instead of the plaster idol of you looming in our family’s collective conscience.

I heard you cough the other night, like I used to every night – paper-thin walls between our houses, no way to hide. They are still soaked with your pain and drip, drip, drip. I preferred the parties.

Another night, I dreamt of you. You tossed back your halo of cherry curls, your mother’s porch vibrated with your laughter. We sat side by side and I said: ‘I miss you so much.’ My pillow was wet. That kind of day, you ache inside me like an ill-repaired bone.

On that kind of day, I come bang on your grave and inject words into your picture like a life surrogate.

Your life. We are used to growing outwards like the trees, layering years of bark and feelings, painstakingly building our crown of branches. Your life spiralled inwards like a coil of incense, your essence of cakes and arguments, belly laughter and paints, and songs. I trace your maps: your years abroad in the Canaries islands, village life with your boyfriend, back to your parents’ house next to mine, your veggie patch and your cats, your armchair and your bed. Your casket.

Perhaps one day I’ll stop talking about you in this way that would make you laugh in my face and shake your head. Meanwhile, I hope our grandma and your little cousin and all the cats from your parents’ garden are keeping you company on the other side. On our side, you will never leave us, we will never see you again.

Our reverse guardian Angela.