Sarah, Grade 11
When you exchange vows with your husband,
in 15 years time, you will remember that
pair of jeans, and you will remember that
nail polish, because they will replay, and
replay in your head, like a spinning disco ball
in a party room where you can’t focus on the light,
because it’s shifting, and it won’t stop moving. That’s
because motion is a necessity of life, or that is
what the philosophers say, but you think
that is just how people tell you to get over
your grief. Shaking you like they would a
snow globe, they’re calling out: wake up, wake up.
It looks like they’re sending snow into the air
but it’s really just soap flakes and glycerin
and it feels like you’re the only one
who can tell the difference. It makes
you feel like a puzzle missing a piece,
insistently pointing out the obvious
but what is there to say when there are only
these moments that will replay like
looping audio tracks. Like getting stuck
in a snowglobe, and banging at the glass because
you're choking on the glycerin, and you’re
drowning in non-soluble soap flakes and you’re
thinking of what things were and what they are
and you’re realizing every memory has merged into a
single broken record, but you’re singing along
now and wasn’t that always the point?