HOUSE PARTY

house party, halloween

By Audrey Ledbetter

My rings clink against my glass, pink-tinted and cool to the touch. I’m sipping honey, whiskey, and apple cider, cross-legged on the carpet, glancing around with an easy grin, enjoying the smiles of strangers in my home. That familiar warmth fills me—flushed face to fingertips to feet. I release my long legs from their bind and return to my room.

The sounds of socialization filter through the slits of my door. Something stirs the soul of my string lights —they flicker—I blink—and now, I’m curled up with my grief, eyes closed against a reminder of a plane crash’s cruelty.

The backs of my eyelids come alive, a movie screen of memories.

Her, swaying in time to Scarlet Begonias asking us—sixteen and stupid— to name the band and lead singer. A clue: rhymes with Cherry Garcia.

Her, giddy as a ladybug’s wings flutter to rest on her palm. No one knew why she loved them so much—now we have mugs and tattoos and earrings.

Me, stupefied in the dorm stairwell that day she died, my tear-blurred vision fixating on the flickering lightbulb.

Pints of Cherry Garcia, ladybugs that land on my leg, flickering lights in dark rooms— this is how we communicate. I say hello, tell her about my day, remind her that she should still be here.

But I love—she loved—life too deeply for me to be here on my bed, back bare against my comforter thinking of death. So I stretch, smile, say see you soon.

I open my door to an angel, two fairies, a ghost, and Britney Spears drunk, in line for the bathroom. Lights dimmed, steady, calling me— come dance in the dining room.