As I sat on the brown, fake leather sofa you paid for two years back, you never crossed my mind. You held a 7 to midnight job downtown in a cramped, plain office four stories up. I called twice a day just to hear how you sounded. You never called back.
As I watched TV with friends I saw once a week, I couldn’t remember your face. You looked less like my blood and more like a god of inescapable difficulties. I spent twenty minutes on the phone talking with Mama about diet fads and the dangers of eating more than one egg a week. She almost forgot to say you could have died in a car accident. My face washed with tears, my voice stuck on hiccups. You said it could have been worse.
As I looked back to the white square house I stopped calling home, you reminded me of what I could have been. Mama was our family backbone, you were the faint heartbeat. And even though you don’t remember leaving us when I was two, in a dusty box upstairs are old pictures without your smile. I think of you all my days.
Lisa Sammoh is a senior undergraduate at the University of South Florida pursuing a creative writing degree. In her free time she likes to watch reruns of So You Think You Can Dance while eating ginger snaps, her current favorite snack.