I Want To Say…
To my three pink post-it notes,
The clock above the television reads: Eight, Five, Eight. It’s 8:58 PM.
“I’ll do it at 9,” I tell myself. I’ll do it. Nine on the dot. I’ll walk up those stairs and say sorry to him, my little brother, Josh. I pinch the three pink post-it notes which have the words I want to say scribbled on them while I pace back and forth on the once white, now yellowish carpet beneath me. Josh and I used to wrestle on this carpet, play make-believe, care for wounded teddy bears, defeat each other at Monopoly.
8:59. I keep pinching the pink post-it notes, hoping to squeeze out some sense of comfort or reassurance from those pieces of paper. I rehearse what I’m gonna say. But how should I start? Should I make sure to add “I hope you hear me out” or “You don’t have to accept this apology”? Should I just get straight to the point? A cold open: “Look, I’m sorry okay.” No that’s too direct.
I take a seat on the arm of the black sofa that faces the stairs. I count 1, 2, 3… a total of 6. 6 steps will bring me to the living room, where Josh could be watching TV, playing video games, working out, checking his email… Oh! Maybe someone sent me an email. I walk away from the stairs and sign into my laptop. I check my inbox. 0 unread messages.
I cycle through the possible what-ifs.
- What if he pretends I’m not there
- What if he doesn’t even care anymore
- What if he’s in the middle of a video game when I show up and then because of me, he loses his focus and screws up his score. Great, some more added resentment to deal with.
I return to my seat on the sofa and search for a reason not to climb those stairs. I find doodles on the walls behind me. Miniature houses with rectangular chimneys and perfectly square doors. Lopsided shapes in brick red, forest green, midnight blue, and sunshine yellow. All of them etched in by 6 year-old me and 4 year-old Josh.
I stand up and walk toward the stairs again. I reach for the wooden rail, using it to drag me up the 6 steps. I make it to the top. Phew! I turn and see Josh wearing headphones, staring intently at his computer screen. He’s in the middle of a game. I shouldn’t distract him. No, that wouldn’t be a good idea. I walk back down. Stair, after stair, stair, after stair, stair, stair.
I’m itching to do something. Anything. Now. Something. I.. I just need to… to… In that moment, my phone saves me from my angst and provides me with the mindless stimulation I need. I lie down on the carpet and befriend the invisible creepy crawly things around me. My fingers have given up on the pink post-it notes. Now they’re just sliding, swiping, and tap tapping away.
The clock reads 9:08. 9:09. I feel my medication kicking in. I don’t bother fighting the drowsiness. 9:10. It doesn’t make sense to apologize now…right? I’ll just call it a night. I can always try again tomorrow. But will he…? Should I…? And does it even…? Tomorrow.
Sincerely, Esther
