They never say your name. Not even whispers. Not even a faint murmur in the back of our family hum, all the low deep steady secrets giving us texture. A sense of fullness. An illusion of understanding when really we know so little. Like you. I know nothing of you. Except that your liver killed you. The rot, the quiet, the coping, it killed you. And they don't speak your name anymore. Because maybe you were their casualty, an embarrassment. A reminder of how your husband got called to task every time you hocked his I'm sorry jewels so you could buy enough pints of whiskey to stop caring that he was fucking other woman. And I want to make you a victim, a martyr. Want to say they killed you, took from you, forgot you...but I'm not sure we're talking about you anymore. And I'm sorry. For me. For them. Cause they never visit your grave, bring you no flowers or tacky wreaths. But you are not alone. There are many stones left undecorated. Because we leave the dead behind. Let the past rest, or haunt, or lay silent until one of us wants to remember.
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