Crow Skull and Crucifix

I made an altar to a dead friend in the corner of my bedroom, bright hardwood meeting crumling white paint beneath a window that stared out at the slope of a hill before the treeline. Everything was green and beautiful before the summer set in. The window was open halfway with something buzzing on the other side of the screen. There was dirt in the cracks and hard-to-reach spaces beneath the pane that were never cleaned. The radio played gospel.  

I built a cross from sticks and twine and put it on the altar for a promise. Antlers sat there for purity and a new life. I found a crow skull in the woods and took it home to remember your collections. Like the crow, you are not afraid to embrace the darkness.  

I built the altar in the corner of my bedroom to apologize for not making it to the memorial, the funeral, the trial. I’m sorry we were born here in the land of cracked earth and crystal meth and alcohol that flows in ever-swelling rivers. When your father says he doesn’t remember what happened I believe him. But he was beating you and pulling guns on your mother for years before now. I’ve heard the gospel but I would inject him myself if it would bring you back. I heard what happened to your body on the local news. No one outside of the state will ever hear. I would write your name in the mountains and tell the world; but my voice would be drowned by an ocean of thousands of stories.  

I remember schoolyard conversations and youth plays and churches. I remember laughing while the Old Testament was read and spying on your sister. That’s how I’ll remember you in spite of everything. I’ll remember the moments of joy when the shields of your eyes burned away. That’s my promise to you. And whether there’s nothing but empty sky above or we bear our crosses for a reason, the day is still and green and beautiful. And a ghost of you will always run down these gravel roads.