The Little I Remember
Tina Barry
The Little I Remember
for Robert Herman
Twice a year when sleep eludes, I type your name
into the internet, add “obit,” assuming the dark locus
consumed you. On your Facebook page
a girlfriend had posted pictures of your last days
together, waist-deep in the Adriatic,
arm in arm at an exhibit of your photos.
The scar above your wincing smile
held the same power it had 40 years ago,
when I’d board a bus for a two-hour trip
to your gray-edged room in the Lower East Side.
I brought offerings: perfect avocados,
tickets to plays I couldn’t afford,
my young body to shine beneath your window’s
pleat of moon. I tried to be enough.
Years later, after I had married, I wheeled my baby
past a coffee shop, where I spotted
you, huddled at a table for one, eyes locked
on an invisible enemy. My grief sat heavy. Relief, too,
as I peered into the pink carnation
of my daughter’s face, grateful
you weren’t her father.
Oh, Robert. You had asked me
How do you enjoy life? I wanted to believe
you had found the answer,
but you scribbled the same question
on a note right before
you jumped.
June 2021
For Robert
From college, a long bus trip, a long subway ride,
a long hallway, a door cautiously opened. My boyfriend blinking
as if I carried too much light.
Two gray-edged rooms in the lower east side, a table tacky
with syrup, sheets grayed to dirty snow. His body slack,
comforting in its young decrepitude. The gummy sadness
of his mouth. I could never be enough.
Years later, wheeling my baby, I passed a coffee shop
where he huddled at a table for one. My grief sat heavy.
Relief, too, as I peered into my daughter’s face,
grateful he wasn’t her father.
Once or twice a year, on sleepless nights,
I type his name, add “obit.” Last week, Goggle
supplied dates. Then one quick dive
into Facebook, and there he was.
Or there his page was.
A girlfriend had posted pictures
of their last days together, swimming
in the Adriatic, clinking glasses in a seaside café.
40 years ago he asked,
“How do you enjoy life?”
I wanted to believe he’d found the answer,
but he scribbled the question
on a note
right before
he jumped.
May 2021
Terrible Twins
In her poem about New York City,
my student erected a column of words,
etched a space near the top, a terrace
for her narrator to jump off of.
I admired the intentional architecture.
I thought of a camera’s aperture
and then a picture-taking boyfriend,
her poem’s terrible twin,
barely remembered (I was that young)
now, specifically remembered--
the gummy sadness
of his mouth and the way he blinked
when he saw me as if I carried
too much light.
A quick Facebook dive
and there he was,
or there his page was. A girlfriend
had posted pictures of their last days,
arms entwined, his wincing smile.
“How do you enjoy life?”
he once asked me. He scribbled
the question again
on a note
right
before
he jumped.
May 2021
Process Statement
I started writing “The Little I Remember” in 2021. I was teaching a poetry workshop, and a member shared a poem about visiting New York City, where a suicide happened in the hotel she was staying in. That triggered a memory of a troubled boyfriend, and I started searching for him on the Internet. What I discovered about the end of his life closely mirrored the incident in my student’s poem, hence the early draft’s title “Terrible Twins.” I shared the early draft to show where the poem launched, and how I was trying to work my way into it. “For Robert,” the middle draft, reveals how the poem was evolving, but the form was awkward, and it needed more context. One technique I have for revision, is to read drafts into the voice memo app on my phone. When I do that, I can hear what’s dragging, words I stumble on, if it’s too long or too abrupt. I always ask myself what I want the poem to reveal, and then I keep chipping away at it. “The Little I Remember” went through at least ten revisions.
Tina Barry (she/her) is the author of I Tell Henrietta, with art by Kristin Flynn (Aim Higher, Inc., 2024), Beautiful Raft and Mall Flower (Big Table Publishing). Her writing can be found in Rattle, Verse Daily, ONE ART, SWWIM, Gyroscope, A-Minor, Trampset, The Best Small Fictions 2020 and 2016, and elsewhere. Tina has five Pushcart Prize nominations and several Best of the Net and Best Microfiction nods. She teaches at The Poetry Barn and Writers.com. TinaBarryWriter.com.
“The Little I Remember” was originally published in Rattle: Issue #78 in Winter 2022. It was also featured in Verse Daily.
Read Issue One