There was no space for me to feel. The alcohol-fueled house was always so full of people, my uncle, his girlfriend, her son, my cousin the roommate, my mother and I. She had been crying for days. The man she left my father for, the man who was to provide refuge, a home and fancy dinners to boot, was holidaying in Israel. It was Valentines Day and I was in the kitchen, coloring and cutting out a series of what I think might have been fifty love hearts. I was going to fix everything. She would wake up in a room full of love. And she did. When she woke the walls of the room were covered in hearts. Only all she could do was cry. I could change nothing.
I don’t remember the feeling that left me that morning, in the room we shared together, but I know it was there, in the kitchen, in those arse-hole cunt fucker shit hearts. All that’s left today is like Nosferatus impression of a girl he once loved, the memory of a face that faded from form to faint outline over decades, over centuries.