Washing My Face, 4:37 A.M. by Sofia Lavidalie

Washing My Face, 4:37 A.M.

by Sofia Lavidalie

I am walking to my parents’ bathroom to get a rag, thinking of all the ways I have undone myself in this house.

I am washing my face again, which Mom says is a good sign. The rags are in a monochrome stack in the closet, and I can see the dust collecting high in a corner.

I am visiting my family for the holidays. It is making me think about how losing someone

can feel like returning home to oneself after a long trip. The curtains are open, the lights are shining warm yellow, but one knocks on the door and finds nobody answers it.

I tell Oliver I don’t want to hollow myself out anymore. He says back calmly, “Who said you have to?”

The rag is becoming wet and dark under the faucet. I bring it to my face and it cools my red cheeks, my puffy eyes, the soap bubbling little piles on my eyebrows.

You are somewhere in Boca Raton. And the sun there is probably heavier, and the bare trees are shifting back and forth.

Or maybe not. Maybe not at all. I have no reason to know, now. I am tired of working against my own body. Every time I say this I say it in your voice. I feel I am living

in the residue of your absence. I will live in it, and I will live in it, and even if I die in it I will continue living.