A Daughter’s Critique / ashton capozzi

A Daughter’s Critique

Iwanted to write about spring in Banff. Or ringing in a Colorado New Year with a nudist couple. I sat for hours trying to describe being gay in a conservative family, or the borderline obsessive love I have for my dog. I wanted to write about life, or love, or some other shit that might make someone’s day a little better. I wanted to write about so many things. But I can’t.

Each time the subject changed, I went outside to smoke a cigarette. Nicotine raises the risk for cancer, makes it hard to walk up a flight of stairs, and keeps me company while I piece together the shit show that is my thought process.

I’ve managed to avoid this topic for 4 years. Through all the short stories, admission essays, therapy sessions, deep drunk conversations, journal entries, and fake prayers I have discussed all but this. And that shit worked out just fine for me.

I sit here with two left in what was a new pack of Marlboro Reds, and I’ll write now.

I’ll write to you.

Fucking bitch.

Mom,

The timing was less than ideal. December 16, two days before your birthday. Not to mention...Christmas. Asshole. Certainly puts a damper on the holiday cheer. There is no prime time to commit suicide, but I’d say mid August would’ve been preferable. Sunny and dry, perfect for outdoor memorial services. No major holidays or special events. You could’ve opened a window and enjoyed the breeze in the process. Listened to birds singing and cars passing by. Mid December supplied a day that was cold, and overcast. You sat in a dark room, alone, with nothing but your thoughts for comfort.

I would have assumed you wouldn’t have went with the pistol.

You and I both know how fond you were of your looks, and generally bullet holes are many things save flattering. A simple search on Wikihow would have opened your eyes to a slew of other options at your disposal. A suicidal ‘Choose Your Own Adventure’. Of course not everyone can be as memorable as Will

Smith was in Seven Pounds (box jellyfish are hard to come by), but for God’s sake, you could have stuck a rag in your Volkswagen muffler, or chased a bottle of baby aspirin with mid shelf Chardonnay. It was your time for creativity, Mother, you could’ve shown some artistic flare.

But whatever. We’re working with the gun.

For swift effects, I personally would have gone with the temple. Thinnest part of your skull, easy access to all that shit that makes you breath, eat, and be. But I can see why you didn’t choose that route. Not the best thing to come home to, not to mention there is a certain irreversibility in that. I’d like to think you chose the chest because a part of you didn’t want to leave. Because there was a chance that it wouldn’t work.

But I digress.

Inside your rib cage, underneath the skin and flesh and bone, is your heart. Most people believe it’s on the left side of your body (thank you, patriotism), but this is only partly true. Yes, the largest portion of your heart is on the left side, but only extending out so far from your sternum. You, dumbass, aimed at your breast, hitting your lung. And that made things much more unpleasant, didn’t it? I imagine you would’ve lasted much longer if it hadn’t been for the ricochete. Under the bed, Dad always kept a mini safe for tax documents. The bullet travelled through the bed, hit the top of the safe, and turned back to clip your other lung.

Those who are left behind like to comfort themselves with the thought that the dead didn’t suffer during the process of dying. You couldn’t even give us that.

Simple anatomy, Mother.

You should’ve locked the front door. You know Zane always forgot his key.

And you should’ve known that making him go to school with a cold wouldn’t work. The man was 18 but could never suffer through anything with even the slightest sniffle. You should’ve known that idiot could legally call himself out of class.

How did you not hear the front door open from your bedroom?

When choosing a witness, I would’ve advised you to pick your candidate more carefully. Zane is your second oldest, but he has always been the baby of the family. A 6’1 lineman with a poet’s heart. For God’s sake woman, he cried for a week after Steve Irwin died. How well did you expect him to handle the situa-

tion after hearing the shot? After walking in on you choking on your mistake?

Age shouldn’t have been a factor in this process. Every night for half a year, I rocked you to sleep. Pried the wine bottle from your fingers and held you until the crying stopped. It would have made no difference, doing it at 11 in the morning. It should have been me.

I was 14, and it should have been me.

My prerequisites were outstanding.

Makeup was always your best friend. You should have never forsaken it.

As a woman who worked as a model for most of her life, you never let a soul see you without foundation and lipstick, not even your family. So I was rather surprised that you chose to face death with a clean face. This turned out to be a mistake. A coroner led the willing into your cooler, one at a time. He had you laid out on a steel table top in the middle of the room. On display for the occasion, before shutting you back in your drawer. Evidently your mother thought you seemed very unlike yourself (I imagine the lack of breathing) and her friend Tonya had done your makeup and hair before any other guests arrived. The effect was comical. Hair in debutant curls, eyelids painted with a thick layer of smokey grey. You looked like the body of a hooker, found in a hotel closet. Used up, deflated. And so small. I couldn’t get over how you seemed so small.

We were left alone, you and I, for longer than I wanted. We sat in silence for a while. I wondered what you felt like after sitting in a fridge for the better half of the day. I wondered if you would feel like raw sirloin steak, laying on a styrofoam plate and covered in plastic-wrap. You didn’t. I stroked your cheek and the color smudged off on my hand. I kissed your forehead and felt the cold waxiness of your skin as it gave a bit under the weight. I held you against me, and your limbs splayed out in stiff contorted angles. I noted aloud that your shoulder was digging into my side. You didn’t reply to this.

A man in white scrubs found us on the ground. He took you from me without a word, a little bundle of cloth with feet poking out the bottom. The bloom in your cheeks had come off on my t-shirt, and your eyeshadow had bled down your chin in deep rivulets.

I suggested setting powder to Tonya on the way out.

“It’s better for everyone this way. I’m sorry.”

What a sorry excuse for a suicide note. Like a sign on a business’ door letting you know the owner will be back after lunch. There is a time and place for brevity. This was not one of those times.

No, I think you should’ve been a bit more concerned with leaving some final words to your loved ones. Telling Cameron that she’ll make a beautiful bride one day. Giving Zane some advice for choosing a college in the spring. Urging Anthony to finally leave that bleach blonde succubus he calls a wife. Giving Dad consent to find love again after you’re gone. Assuring me that my depression had nothing to do with what you did. Some cliche shit like that.

But no matter. I found it written in the planner you kept on the kitchen counter. Marked in the box labeled ‘To Do List’. I almost laughed at that.

We had you cremated. Shutting you in a box deep underground didn’t sit well with Dad. Perhaps he thought you’d get lonely. You now sit in a cardboard box on top of a chest of drawers in Dad’s room. Every time we travel he makes a point to bring a little piece of you to scatter around. One day, he claims, we might not be able to go a single place without you being there.

The idea makes him happy, and that repulses me. Sticking my hand into a ziplock sandwich bag and scooping out a portion of you leaves me lightheaded. Sifting the bits of bone and grit through my fingers makes my stomach roll. And the idea of having nowhere to escape from you makes me want to scream.

I sit here with two cigarettes and nothing left to say. It’s 6:00 am and I’m sure there is a bottle of vodka in the fridge that keeps even better company than the Marlboros do.

I wanted to write about so many things.

I wanted to write about anything but you.

Yours Always,

Ashton