OUROBOROS

Yesterday I took one of your pills. I let it melt into an acidic wax on my tongue—borderline bile in every crevasse of my mouth. I can’t remember if I fully swallowed it, but it circled my palate for hours.

Today the serpent chased me. I circled around the equator, feet scrambling across the ocean floor. The earthquake in Japan was me, but that’s only what the serpent hissed.

Tomorrow is cake at grandma’s house. It isn’t for anything important, just a forty-something birthday. She’s making white sauce for you—circling around the pot all day.

Yesterday I smoked one of your joints. I imagined your fingers methodical, delicate across the paper, rolling it into the perfect circle. Your concentration devoted, your determination focused. When I ignited your lighter, I saw your thumb on top of mine, saying you get used to the flame. I don’t think you had the good shit. My respiratory system filled with grass on the verge of winter’s death. I melted away the same way you did, that persistence blowing away with the smoke.

Today I hid while the serpent bit its tail. The Norse called this peaceful and voyaged out. I can only peek out to see a slumbering snake—chest rising and falling slowly. That the next day, when I turn my head, more destruction will happen, more running, more remembering. I dare to circle the cave in hopes of an exit.

Tomorrow is my birthday. Someone will force a photo of us together and ooooo and aaaaa at how grown we look now. Except I’m told you’re not supposed to get older, but I want to be your age. You can walk across the street to the neighbor’s house and circle your bike around the cul-de-sac. You can have a phone and reluctantly pick up your dad’s calls. You can stay out past sunset and come back with bloodshot eyes. I’ll cry and I won’t know why. You’ll call me a brat.

Yesterday I found your liquor stash. It tasted like every hug from our grandfather. A sting to the gut, every exhale butane. Did I ever tell you about the first time I drank? I transcended every dark night in our house and became uncomplicated. With each sip I saw his red eyes and when I caught my reflection in the circular mirror, I saw them on me. I wish you didn’t buy shitty vodka. At least I stopped vomiting after drinking. Do you still?

Today I was close to escaping the serpent. I saw the land in the ocean’s sparse sunlight. My hand batted through the rays, close to breaching the calm waves. Gulls squawked, and algae brushed my hair. But deep from the blue abyss came a rumble, a warning. A fierce bite wrapped around my ankle and slowly the brightness dimmed. I sunk back down into the indigo abyss with only the reminder of warmth.

Tomorrow is your birthday. But we know you probably won’t show up. We’re still going to make vanilla cupcakes with green frosting and meatloaf with extra ketchup. There’s going to be some decorations on a circle table about something you liked when you were seven. Probably Pokémon. I think grandma is trying to trap you in the age before you started acting like this. Then she’ll look at me and promise I won’t be like you. And when we both look around the room and see the ghosts of sobriety, I’ll just have to nod and say yes. I think I’ll just hide it better than you do.

Yesterday I stuck your needle in my arm. By now the pinch had no painful effect, just another way to move through the day. It took a few jabs, but our blood is half the same anyways, so I figured you wouldn’t care if I used your needle. The yellow liquid sauntered into my circulatory system and my eyes lowered slightly. Maybe you’re hitting the same tranquil, slumped pose somewhere. Maybe whatever you have killing you is inside me now. Maybe it was always there.

Today the serpent caught me. Coils wrapped around, constricting the flows of my body. I gave up when the calluses on my feet tore off on the Australian coast. Now each step bitterly invites debris from the sea floor and won’t spit it back out. I don’t know where I would even run to anymore. The Earth rumbles from my evasion. I know the serpent is hungry and cities are trying to rebuild. So I let the acidic fangs dive deep into my flesh and resolve life into the water.

Tomorrow is grandpa’s birthday. I know it’s during one of your bad months: the stretches of time when I’m told not to give you money if you ask and you text saying a giant snake is following you. But grandpa wheezes on each breath and doesn’t catch up on the next. We’ll have to corral in a circle to help him blow out the candles. He’ll ask about you, but when the sun goes down, he won’t remember you at all. That feels easier. I’ve had to watch his skin sag and mind soften without you, without help. I don’t even know what you would do.

Are you dead? I sometimes wish you were. Instead, I wait for the call that they can’t find you. That you haven’t picked up anyone’s calls or texted back, your silence longer than usual. That someone ratted on the mess you created and lived in. That we need to identify the body because God knows how long you’ve been there. That we won’t know how to plan the funeral. That we couldn’t name the last people you knew or wanted to be there. That you didn’t tell us you planned on dying. That you didn’t plan on dying. That I’m not sure if you did call I would know who was there.

Will I die the same way?

Will my children die the same way?