Piled yellow sheets

and coffee before dinner. They tease me about that one scent
without a name. Just a few crumbs that tickle my memory

and make me forget to eat. Something soft left a mark.
Vegetables forever stain the walls behind the sink

I once couldn’t reach. Do you remember the stool I had?
It was pink. I can reach the water glasses now.

They feel different. Your toilet is smaller.
The seat cover is worn. My room picked

a new scent. I imagine a faint vanilla spray
falling on each pillow, seat, stuffed animal.

What once was pushes through the plastic
wrap, and I can’t help but notice the dust

smells like Dino Tales and a lift in the gut.
The beanie baby family seems to have grown shy. Did she

pick up sewing again? The seams are invisible.
Somehow sprouted overnight like my cousin

who now stands above me. The hallway still makes me run
when the lights go out. Dark green floors and a calling

to the concrete laundry room. Bare bones broke in the corner
from one game of hide and seek. It rattles inside.

Did you turn the thermometer down? I can’t find the yogurt Cheerios
anywhere. Did you forget to harvest the tomatoes? I learned

about plants, I can help you. I want to help you. Do you remember
when I could climb that tree? Bloodied knees and stinky band-aids

before it became bathtime. The dog still has his vengeance out
for the Easter Bunny. He still claims his spot on the carpet.

Do you still have the jazz albums? Each Christmas disappears
as if it never existed. I’ll go to the store and get pretzels

and we can talk about skiing. Your seat will stay warm and this time
I will make note to hug her goodnight. I can't remember

the way I once loved her. So I shove the blame into boxes, writing notes
that burn after dark. Their ashes befriend the tomato roots. I think

you took part of her with you. I can’t resent you, and it’s forgiven
before you ask. I’ll even say I understand because the lights hit the glass

hummingbird a little differently now. I do remember the rainbow cascades.
Do you? I brought UNO and a toothbrush. If we make coffee and watch the news

the room might conjure that one smell I can’t describe.
This time I’ll try to. We can stuff it into a mason jar. I’ll go outside,

prune the squash before the sun sets. Your green gloves
are in the vest pocket. Somehow, still, metal pricks my finger

and I watch the blood trickle onto the brown leaves.
I follow. The cucumbers grow above my hips. I watch.

There’s that scent, it’s the garden as it once was.
I’ll make sure to wipe my eyes clean

before my hair turns gray. I know, I know.
Rescue missions fail and I’ve become a shadow

of myself. Just tell me, when I’m ready,
will I ever be? The wound finds a blanket in a bandaid

and the faucet runs.

Julia Neumann is a sophomore at Bates. She spent the summer working with plants and hunting for fairy houses.