pleximetry.

Pleximetry

What is it, little one?

You muck about from basement, upon staircase, marching up curbsides until you’ve wedged yourself into the attic. Don’t touch me, they can’t touch me here, you scream. From atop the tower you made, of old picture frames and burlap bags, a caterwauling of catastrophes collect at the peak of your lungs: it’s all gonna fall apart. It’s all gonna fall apart, and it’s gonna be all your fault. It’s all going to come crashing down: he never stayed, he never stayed, they never stay, they never wanted to, they never wanted you.

And I’ve heard you wail like this before. In different years, I played all sorts of games seeing if I could match the way your body lay and flung across the bathtub, the ceramic floor, the bottom of the ceiling, writhing and seizing, begging me to make it better. I bit your lips; I threw glass around our home, dissipated from your incessant moans, your blood-curdling pleas for me to soften any of the things that felt scary.

But what scares you still, little one?

Since you were young, you hated sleeping alone. I remember. You claimed it was the dark. You claimed it was the ghosts. I knew it was the screams you heard in the night-time. I knew it was the sound of rocks hitting glass bottoms, because later in life you would look up at glass ceilings to shrink without question. You knew they’d never break, not like your mother’s hands as she fought off the glass bottles thrown at your face.

So I used my hands. I built a bed for you. It took years. To this day, I can barely assemble an Ikea night table. But our frame I crafted from takeout boxes, old roaches and wrapping paper, so even in its first stages you’d see it as a present. I found forgotten magazines and lost books (where did you think I got the ideas for all those love-notes?) and despite the tinderbox, I left candles burning by bedside, reason being twofold. One: to leave a guide-home on for you, and two: to show you that love doesn’t have to catch and corrode our foundations. You could sleep safe, little maven—And still some nights, you refused to sleep.

So I used to feed you the old fuel I found at the back of the cupboard, or let you lick the dust off of strangers’ palms. I thought maybe if I could take away your bedtime, you’d see that there wasn’t anything to fall apart. And maybe that worked for a while, until one day you told me that you were scared to lose the feeling of the sun on your skin, like the only thing more terrifying than sleeping forever was walking through life pretending you remembered what it was like to find joy in something as simple as being loved.

I used to shake when you shook, to cry when you howled, to gasp when you grasped onto empty breaths and prayers; I prayed when you finally held your wet cheeks in both hands. To this day, I stay up with you. And it’s only been lately, I speak a little slower. What’s wrong, little one? What didn’t you hear? What word are you digging for, pawing at the covers and tearing at the curtains for? It’s only been lately, I listen a little closer. What is it, sweet girl? Daily, it’s like I’ve been studying for this big test of my craftsmanship. And I have to pass this one. Tell me, my love, I’m listening. I built you a big safety net then, I heard. I made paper boat life-rafts every night for a year. I whittled an instrument so you could sing. I was listening, I was listening.

I’m listening still.