travel patterns // where things end up

I know, I haven't written here in a good while. a cacophony of projects have stolen my attention, including but not limited to: finding rehab centers; finding rehab center that won't totally break my bank since i'm still saving up to replace my hearing aids that drowned in the Backpack Flood of 2015 not to mention student loans; finding brother; organizing intervention for said brother; getting brother into detox program; training for first jiu jitsu tournament; dealing with lingering legal shit bits from dad's estate that just keep popping up; trying an entirely new skin care routine; replacing all my lost legal records and forms of identification; learning to skate on a penny board; deciding finally that yes, i do need a new job; attempting to cook healthy meals that do not include spam or white rice; etc. Also, Grandpa died in July. On what would have been Dad's 64th birthday. Also I have developed a new fear that I may be becoming lactose intolerant? What fresh hell is this.

For so long I'd thought that once I knew where my brother slept, I would be able to sleep. This turns out to not to be the case when the answer is "various parks in the bad area of the Valley."

These days I think a lot about the neighborhood kids, our friends, who never made it out. I can see Falvo on our porch with a tall can and a red beanie, but can't wrap my mind around an image of him face down in the snow, succumbing to hypothermia 13 miles away from that same porch. Mikey, who shoplifted an Aaron Carter CD in 4th grade, how on earth could bath salts have him yelling at God in the skate park? I can see so clearly in my mind unwrapping the Christmas ornament Megan got me 2 years ago, but what am I supposed to do with the image of her hanging in her closet? Philip, Justin, A, Greg... I worry that we don't have moms to worry about us and you do these things I can't understand like why do you need a friggin' gun you used to collect Super Mario figures from the quarter machine at K-Mart and I don't know how to help. Worst of all, I hear Ziggy's voice like he's right behind me, eager to show a new picture of his baby daughter, and... I can't go further without my skin crawling into itself. These days just feel so heavy sometimes.

Over and over again I find myself bewildered at where things end up. The bathroom, the yard sales, the bed sheets, the belt. I drove around for 2 1/2 days with heroin in my jacket pocket without knowing. And was only mildly surprised when I discovered it. I didn't immediately throw away the lump of foil though. I left it on my desk for weeks, and can't explain why. Finally threw it out while cleaning my room, but it'll still end up somewhere else. I don't know why the travel patterns of objects is bugging me so much lately but it really is. Maybe if my brother had left me anything else to remember him by. No, that's dumb. There are boxes and boxes of elementary school projects that Mom painstakingly saved for years without our knowledge. And now I can't throw them out, can't bear to look at them, can only hide them from sight under my bed and sleep above them, wondering where my brothers ended up.