Robynne Yokota

A house that Isn’t welcomes me with the familiar-unfamiliar. I step full-bodied into the lush warmth of the kitchen that melts the memory of Western New York Winter off my cheeks. 

The lights overhead are yellowed with age and everything is where it’s supposed to be: 

• Dissected grocery store circulars litter the table with coupons waiting to be cut. 
• A Yosemite Sam pint glass is filled with Metamucil. 
• Neil Diamond plays through the counter-sized Bose speaker that sits underneath a portrait of Jesus. 
• The CD case sits there too, not yet cracked by my clumsy hands.

My mother stands at the kitchen island in ageless limbo, both barely 30 and nearly 60. She flashes a smile so wide I can see the pink of her gums.

I set grocery bags down onto the table. Behind me, my husband trails in. He’s never been here before and is excited to finally meet you in person. Something akin to Thanksgiving is supposed to be happening, except I see no turkey and can’t recall what floats were at the Macy’s Day Parade.

Standing there at the stove though, thick grey cardigan on, I see you and I know instinctively there’s a handful of mini chocolates in your pockets; Mr. Goodbar, Krackle, plain old Hershey’s when they were still palatable. You always sneak one when you think nobody is looking.

I stare at the back of your head from across the kitchen, dark curls shellacked down like they taught you in the Marines. An itchy rationality stirs underneath my skin and the music becomes muted. I claw at my coat and tug at the sleeves. 

I have tried and failed for half a decade to mythologize you in a way that matters. 

I’ve dissected your death to the point of mutilation and disgust. Beating your carcass in hopes of turning it into something beautiful to satisfy my own selfish desire for closure. To properly eulogize you as the father figure I never had, to parade you around as the Good Man you were, eliciting understanding and sympathy from those around me.

And you’ve given me this beautiful gift where in my dreams, for a brief moment, I can pretend to achieve that.

I want to tell you everything. I open my mouth.