Buttons

I remember you. We remember you.
You used to come in every weekend with your mother and brother when you were younger. They made you seem like you were made for softer things. They used to pretend like they were made for softer things too.

You all liked to play pretend.

You also liked to play with the claw machine by my door.

More to the left, your brother would say, then lean to watch the dangling claw from a better angle as you guided the stubby joystick, grease-slick from unwashed hands. Just two coin-fed city kids fishing for a way to pass the time. Behind the screen, the glass-eyed, cheap stuffed animals, cotton-cored, pleaded with you for escape. You tuned out the rumble-crash of parents’ Tuesday night league, the shouted curses when they bowl poorly, and the shouted curses when they bowl well.

And his eyes, all brown and hazel and golden and lit up like pinball bulbs, were watching intently as the claw dropped for the rainbow bear, its clumsy seams already unraveling.

I almost let you have the bear, but you yanked the joystick far too quickly at the last second and spilled a great deal of nothing into the prize box as if a magician were revealing his empty hat. Your brother groaned. You both laughed. You didn’t try again. Not that day.

I left the bear close to the glass for a while, just in case. Time folded. The bulbs burned out one by one. Your mother stopped coming. Then your brother. Then you.

But I stayed.

Even when the construction company came and suddenly there was a busy road outside my doors and I was going to get torn down, I stayed.

I understood soon enough that you would never use two hands to get a prize or tug on your brother's sleeve so he could buy some candy. You stopped ordering cherry slushies with two straws. But every once in a while, you’d come down here to cry. First it was your friends at school. Then it was because you were moving. You hid behind the claw machine and sobbed, and the tears became all too familiar.

And then you left.
Just like that.

The lights went out first.

The neon sign out front screaming “arcade” over rooftops buzzed and then died altogether, and with it went the claw machine, which jammed and broke when no one came to fix it.

And then.
Then, that day.
Your shadow spilled from the cracks beneath my door. You realized it was locked, so I left my window open for you.

I smelled the country on you before I saw your face. You walked like someone used to shoving through crowds. Something caught in your throat as you looked around. 

Your eyes fell on the claw machine first.

Of course they did.

I hold your gaze—your eyes are no longer yours, bleached out. I lean over to you and blow dust into them. You cough and try to swat it away. 

I bury you in the middle of the snow along with a chunk of my scorched heart.

You belonged to me once, though I am not sure if you still do.

You turn away. I catch a sliver of your reflection in my windows, and you’re only there for a glimpse, one grain, and when I glance over my shoulder, you’re gone. 

I remember the taste of mucus and salt as it seeped through the carpet and into my floorboards.

You do not cry anymore. You have long discarded softer things.

Sometimes, I miss mucus and salt. But sweat and blood taste good too.

We remember you. I remember all of you.
Do you remember me too?
When you leave, your hand lingers on the doorknob.
Yes.
Yes, we think you do. Your reflection is back. You smile at me from the window, from my eyes.
“Way to go, kid,” I say.
Or maybe: “Time to go.”