Tornado

for Andrea

by Megan Falley

I admit, you drove me crazy.

The careless way you’d salt a tomato,

no napkin or plate beneath it. 

Just right over the floor, 

your summer snow, trusting

someone else would sweep it.

And you never took your boots off.

Only ever used half a stevia packet.

The rest would collect in the crevices

of car doors, divots no vacuum could reach. 

There was nothing you couldn’t fix

with duct tape, or shoelaces

stolen from other people’s shoes.

And you broke everything

you borrowed. All those stains

you called heart-shaped.

Plus you lost my heirlooms.

Not because you didn’t care,

but because you moved so fast,

like maybe you always knew

you would leave too soon—

so why waste a minute

screwing the cap back on 

the pickle jar? Do you remember 

how many times you thought 

something was stolen?

That we’d been invaded?

Because you couldn’t wait

that extra breath to look. You loved me

because I always found everything.

I always assured you: 

nothing was taken from us. 

Not even time. 

It’s all such a mess—

how immaculate the house is now.

All I want is you 

tracking muddy bootprints

across my life. 

Come back, fix this 

with my missing shoelaces. 

Why did I care

that we were walking on salt? 

Come home.

I will call it the beach.

4.1.26