The Girl Who Learned How to Disappear

by Denise Dalfino

Image credit: Kamila Maciejewska on Unsplash

Don’t be afraid to open those notebooks.

You think you only remember the pain.

But even in the darkest places, there was light.

You loved. You were loved.

That’s what matters.

You are Dee. That’s enough.

~ Thomas

March 1, 2019

I can still hear my mother’s screams.

*

I didn’t know what to do.

Mommy was in the closet screaming. She wouldn’t come out.

She said if I didn’t make the baby stop crying, she’d hurt us.

I put the bottle in hot water the way Mommy did, then checked it on my wrist.

I was too little to reach her in the crib, so I called Grandma.

Then I put my hand through the bars and touched her hand.

She curled her fingers around mine, like she didn’t want me to leave.

I stayed just like that until Grandma came.

*

Grandma said we were going to stay at her house—all of us—

the baby, my brother, and me.

I didn’t want to go. I told her I couldn’t leave Mommy.

I screamed but she scooped me up and carried me to the car anyway.

We stopped at McDonald’s.

I got a cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake.

The fries were hot and salty, and I ate every bite—even the pickle.

I was licking the salt off my fingers when I remembered—

Mommy was still in the closet.

*

Last night Mommy let me sleep in her bed.

She tucked the blanket under my chin and kissed my forehead.

Her lips were soft,

and her hair tickled my cheek.

I stayed very still so she wouldn’t change her mind.

But she did.

*

Mommy took us to the beach today.

My brother and I built sandcastles and played in the water.

When we came out, we couldn’t find her.

The sand burned my feet.

A lady held my hand and walked with us.

When we found Mommy,

she was still reading her book.

*

Mommy cut my hair today.

She didn’t ask. She just did it.

I told her I liked it long, but she said it looked messy.

I cried, and she told me to stop being silly.

That night I dreamed I was tied to a chair, and she came toward me with the scissors.

I wanted to scream, but nothing came out of my mouth.

I woke up and thought about getting into her bed.

But I knew she wouldn’t want me there.

*

Last night Mommy let me sleep in her bed.

She tucked the blanket under my chin and kissed my forehead.

Her lips were soft, and her hair tickled my cheek.

I stayed very still so she wouldn’t change her mind.

But she did.

*

I found a corner behind the couch where no one can see me.

When Mommy gets mad,

I take my pillow and my pink stuffed dog

and hide.

*

Mommy let me wear her lipstick today.

It tasted like cherries.

She said I looked like Snow White.

I hope there wasn’t poison in it.

*

My teacher said I was good at coloring.

She hung my picture on the wall for a week.

I brought it home to show Mommy.

She said the sky isn’t purple and crumpled it up.

But I like purple skies.

It was purple the day Daddy taught me how to ride my bike.

*

Image credit: Jr Korpa on Unsplash

March 3, 2019

It’s been sixty years since I wrote this poem for my mother. I still remember it word for word.

Mom On The Moon

I am the broken dish.   

I am the melted spoon.   

Mom is a million miles away like the beautiful moon.

Someday I’ll read it to her like this:

I am the ________ dish.   

I am the ____________ spoon.   

Mom is ____________ the beautiful moon.

*

Daddy’s coming home tomorrow.

I hope he brings me a doll I can sleep with this time.

Not another one that has to sit on a shelf.

I want one I can hold

when he’s gone.

*

Daddy didn’t read me a story again.

He said he was tired, but I think Mommy wouldn’t let him.

So I made one up and told it to my doll.

I held her close and whispered,

“My daddy loves me.

My daddy loves me.

My daddy loves me.

”I said it three times like a wish.

*

I stole my brother’s magic when he was only four—

and I did it on purpose.

What kind of sister does that make me?

I told him there was no Santa Claus

because he got the Erector Set I wanted,

and I got another stupid Barbie.

Bad Dee.

Bad Dee.

Bad Dee.

*

April 2, 2019

Kryptonite

I was five when you moved in next door.

Once, I peeked through your window

and saw you on the floor in a Superman costume,

spinning spoons so fast I thought you were magic.

I waited for you,

but you never came outside—

not for tag,

or hide and seek,

or just to lie on the lawn

and watch clouds shape-shift.

One morning,

I knocked on your door and asked if you could play.

“Samuel is different,” your mother said.

“I know,” I told her. “So am I.”

She let me in.

You were sitting in the center of a wooden world

made of Lincoln Logs and Tinker Toys,

your hands flapping like a bird trying to fly.

“Don’t touch him,” your father said.

“He doesn’t like it.

”But I already knew.

One night I saw the moving truck in your driveway.

You were standing on the concrete barrier between our yards,

arms stretched out like wings.

My mother walked me over to say goodbye.

I climbed up beside you.

“Look at him,” I told your father.

“He’s letting the wind touch his face.

He likes it.

His eyes are bright as stars.”

“I don’t see any light,” your father said.

And just like that,

those words destroyed

the superpowers

that belonged to you and me.

*

I was coloring when Thomas came and sat near me.

He said, “Be careful not to get crayon on the rug.

Your mother will get mad.”

I laughed, and he did too.

Mommy came in and said,

“Great. Another imaginary friend.

Get rid of it.”

But he’s not imaginary.

This time I’m not going to listen to her.

I’m keeping him.

I need a friend.

*

May 3, 2019

You always show up when I need you, Thomas. Even now.

Image credit: Yukon Haughton on Unsplash

***

Denise Dalfino

Denise Dalfino writes hybrid work that lives at the intersection of grief, survival, and memory. Her style blends fiction, memoir, and poetry in fractured forms. Her work has appeared in Thema, with new work forthcoming in redrosethorns journal. She is currently completing her first book, Under the Same Moon.