By Yoobin Tara Park

Dear Roxy,

My body keeps me alive just like you did.


72 beats per minute: my heart is pulsing from the center of my chest.

98.6 degrees Fahrenheit: my blood still circulates without hesitation, coursing to the ends on my fingertips.

-

Dear Roxy,

I opened my eyes again this morning. I really didn’t want to.

The solid bones of my shins still bear my weight. The muscles along my thighs tense, ready to move. My lungs expand, collapse, and expand again, indifferent to whether I am willing to breathe.

Each function continues with chilling precision. This body persists; I am alive.

My stomach heaves, rising and falling like the tides, while yours lay still on the deathbed. I hate how my lips shimmer and reflect my youth, while yours are pale and dry from the mortician’s lipstick. The creases on my double eyelids deepen with each passing day, etching your absence into my skin. I once envied yours. Now, I see too much of you in my face.

I want my heartbeat to stop — just like yours did.

Just like that summer night when you fell asleep on the couch waiting for me. Now, I wait to see you.

You had made it through the silence,  yet I am still drowning in the noise.

My mind longs to follow you while it is trapped by this body’s stubborn instinct to survive.

In a few hours, hunger will return.

–

Motilin,

secreted from the mucosal lining of my duodenum, will trigger contractions. I will feel a hollow gnawing:the sound of my gut twisting itself into motion.

My stomach might growl.

The thought of needing anything at all might fill me with resentment.

–

Roxy,

Why does the body beg for survival when the will to live is gone?

Like a dog on a leash, my mind is on a tight grip. It drags my mind to my knees, making it surrender every single second.

–

Roxy,

I loathe the songs we listened to together in your car. I will never be able to sing them out loud again. They played them at your funeral.

I hate when my phone shows me pictures of you. I will never be able to scroll through them. I still remember the moment we saw blue hydrangeas together.We promised to get matching piercings and tattoos, but I never went through with it. Some things are meant to be memories only when shared.

–

Roxy,

I want to stop. But this body keeps moving forward. It’s like a machine in a factory, still running after  silently crushing a worker beneath its gears.

If no one says a word, maybe no one will notice.

Maybe everything would be easier if I didn’t think at all.

When I questioned if I was even sane anymore, my body answered me.

It told me to eat.

It told me to sleep.

It told me to listen when cars honk.

Not to catch a cold. Not to touch something too hot.

Not to get hurt.

–

Your voice echoed as my pulse pumped. You wouldn’t want me like this.

–

Roxy,

Now, I let go of the bitterness of betrayal.
I decided not to blame this gentle motherhood — just as I did not blame your body as it burned. ■