Every Last Word

by Tamara Ireland Stone

Their friendship might require weekly therapy, but I have fun with them.

“The trick is to recognize your mistakes, take what you need from them, and move on.”

I have a mental illness and four superficial friends. Surely I have more fodder for a poetic career than to need an ugly orange couch.

I told her that her blush was too heavy and she looked like a mime.” “Well, if she looked like a mime, it makes perfect sense that she’s not speaking to you,” he says.

“You asked me to make one new friend,” I say, staring into my mug. “And I did. And I liked her. A lot. But as it turns out, she’s been dead for eight years, which, as you might expect, can really hinder a friendship.”

These walls heard me when no one else could. They gave my words a home, kept them safe. Cheered, cried, listened. Changed my life for the better. It wasn’t enough. But they heard every last word.

“You got me a Christmas present? Let me guess. A shiny new brain? A healthy one this time?” I give it a little shake. Damn. Too light.