Michelle L. Foster died on a Wednesday in November. When he first found out, her cousin had considered how many other families lost a loved one the day before Thanksgiving, or even on Thanksgiving - that would be terrible - or worse, Christmas.
When he first found out it was only a bad dream, because the next day he woke up, and Michelle, Michelle L., was alive again. But when he trudged downstairs, his mom looked up from her laptop and coffee, and told him that Michelle’s, Michelle L.’s, funeral was on Saturday. She had died again. Michelle seemed to die every morning since the day she died.
But this is not a story of Michelle L.’s many deaths, or even how she died, because Michelle L. died of a brain aneurysm while she was eating cheerios in her plaid pajamas, all alone, which is quite sad, but also quite short.
Michelle L. died on a Wednesday in November and this is exactly how Michelle is to be remembered.
Michelle L. Foster did not look her age. Her hair was faded brown and almost gray on certain days . Her eyes were gray too, and blue from far away. Her smile was tired, her skin did not glow, she always bit her nails, so they could not grow. Michelle L.’s apartment was on the third floor, and she’d open all the windows and listen to the dead autumn leaves make the trees whisper.
Michelle L. Foster had a bedroom with white walls and a white floor. It had two windows and a light brown door. Michelle L. Foster lived near a train.
Michelle L. Foster was incredibly plain. She loved sweatpants and earth tones like she loved ponytails and men’s cologne. (Which was a lot).
Michelle L.’s windows had no screens, so she’d sit on the ledge and talk to the trees.
And they’d listen.
No one really knew Michelle, but to everyone, it seemed that she knew them all too well.
Michelle L. Foster would disappear now and again. Not only again, but again, and again and again.
Michelle L. Foster listened when the sky cried and slept with the concrete when it’d ask her why, why? She’d collect telephones, but no one knew her number. (They weren’t plugged in anyway.)
Michelle took pictures of extension cords and ceiling fans, of cardboard boxes and pots and pans, and Michelle would hang these pictures on her wall, and there they wouldn’t look strange at all.
Michelle L. Foster collected keyless locks and single socks.
Michelle, Michelle L., woke up on a Wednesday and ate cheerios.
