See You In The Morning by Mairead Case

Condition: new
featherproof books, 2015

"

When I was little I thought if you matched your breath to someone else’s, you would die together. For years before Mom and Dad went out, I put my ear to Mom’s ribcage and kept us safe. I didn’t think about what might happen if my parents went underwater or too far away, or were hurt in an accident. I believed we’d stay in-sync because I wanted us to.

Eventually I stopped that kind of breathing, because I started listening to slow, burnt pink music on headphones. That sludged time, which was almost as helpful. After that I forgot about our trick for years, but remembered it this summer, our last—John’s and mine, Rosie’s too—before we aren't high schoolers anymore.

Summer before senior year is the last time you can mess around. After that you’re applying to college or finding a job or a couple jobs or, if you’re a girl, you can have a baby. You don’t even need a husband to do that, though sometimes I think they make it easier. Generally though, people don’t leave. If you do it’s like burning a dear and expensive gift. It’s ungrateful. This summer is the last one nobody really cares about. I keep wishing I could hold it, hold on to not having to make anything up so people will like me, hire me, kiss me, or whatever.

The wish stretched into dread and then a dead sadness, especially riding the bus to work at Chapters. There are all these signs on lawns, at the drugstore, in front of church. CONGRATULATIONS, GRADUATES! they yell. Why? Can’t this wait? Why can’t I decide when to go? Still I feel I should be appreciating it more.

I mean, I’ll never win a football championship or go to war, I don’t want a baby and I bet I won’t get married. Who would marry me? How would it even feel? How do you look at one other person every day until you die? There is no other way to get a sign here."

–excerpt from the book, via featherproof books