Eddie always says, when I see him near his garage, that
he hasn’t slept for days, that he can’t be held responsible
for what he might do. He says the neighbor’s cat
walked all the way around the block at his heel. Eddie,
from grade school, lives here with his aging
parents, one brother in a divorce. Someone
has gutted the house to the south. The lot
is filled with gravel and dry wall. All day
the workers tote barrows. It’s like this all day,
Eddie says, shows me graffiti arcing the dumpster’s
side: EAZY. The noise flosses his brain which
was already unquiet. I don’t know why I’m telling you
about my neighbor Eddie. Today I found papers
from the day my daughter survived a drug OD,
the discharge report a sad technician
printed. Visit Summary of the worst day
of your life: the make-up of her blood,
how many IV bags they gave her, the words drug
overdose loud and thick. Follow up
with primary doctor. That day, her friend barged
past the nurses—pants sagging, neck loaded
with chains, a stereotype of himself. Everyone
takes a turn in this bed, he said. He died
two years later using heroin. My daughter
is alive and clean. She flips her FaceTime camera
toward her orange tabby–close up on his paws,
their granite pink. Tomorrow, I’ll tell her
the mountain of gravel as seen from my kitchen
slumps like snow in the dark. This summer
will make three years. She refused
to come with me on discharge. It would be two
months before she changed her mind. I can’t
tell you what it was like driving her to the ER
that searing July dawn, so I’m telling you
what Eddie said near his garage today, how
he hasn’t slept and doesn’t know what he’ll do.
