Aurora 2024

Aliyah Orten

a word. I stare at that open door, thinking of trick or treating every Halloween, the story where my father was locked out when mowing the yard, or waiting to hear my grandma’s excited voice when we would surprise visit her. Thinking through every memory that has expanded from the off-white door and convincing myself that we are all overreacting, everything is going to be okay. I begin to feel overwhelmed. In this moment, I realized I had forgotten my glasses in the rush out of the door and I still have my retainer in my mouth. Seeing my eyes flood with tears, I tear out the contraction in my mouth, disrupting my breath and beginning to truly panic. I’d had panic and anxiety attacks before, numerous before being able to classify them, but nothing like this. My dad comes back to the truck and decides to take us on a drive through town while they wait for more assistance. I later knew the end of my grandfather’s life had arrived at that moment, but my parents wanted the last memory of him psychically, to be positive. They wanted me to first think of the excitement he shared towards me graduating high school, rather than his final breath leaving his body. We drive circles and circles around the town where I have lived my whole life. I stare out the window, the roads are bare – it is 2 am during a lockdown pandemic. My vision is so bad that everything is blurry. And my brain continues to be consumed with thoughts, thoughts of hope and fear. Both through knowledge and placement of the sun, my brother and I remain in the dark.

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