TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDE

There are only two ways to get to Aunt Rox’s house: you either hop Lisa Buck’s fence or you take your bike and ride it diagonally through the patch of grass that connects Hummel Road and Ashland Drive, totally bypassing the Meyer’s.

If you decide to hop Lisa’s fence, you’re in the clear—we leave a nylon-strapped camping chair on Lisa’s side and a green plastic chair on Aunt Rox’s. There’s an understood rule that no one is supposed to move them, but if for some reason they aren’t where they are supposed to be, the fence isn’t too high. Sure it’s rusty, and its integrity questionable, but no one has hurt themselves. Yet. Just grip a toe in the metal slot shaped like a diamond, give yourself a little oomph, and by that time your other foot should be on top of the fence.

Now here’s where I want you to listen—when you have to decide whether to straddle the fence or launch yourself over, I don’t want you thinking too hard about it. If you’re up there for too long, the fence will start to sway, you’ll feel it lean, and you won’t be able to afford the damages if it goes down on you. I want you to make a decision and commit to it. Jump, or straddle it evenly with your bodyweight, and then swing your other leg over. None of this in-between malarkey, or else you’ll be left with a rip in the crotch—or worse. Oh, and you don’t have to text Lisa anymore, she’s cool with us going through her backyard. Just give her a little wave if she’s standing by the window.

On the other hand, if you decide to ride your bike through the grass, it will take a few extra minutes. It’s not a long ride, but it means you’ll have to come home before dark because mom doesn’t want us getting picked up by strangers like the poor kids at Ben B.’s house. That was a freaking nightmare. Right, so, you’ll want to start on the sidewalk and cross at Fry Road—yes, you’ll have to do some backtracking, but mom prefers that we use the crosswalk. Ride down about a house length and then look for the divot in the grass. It’s not more than a few inches wide, but it’s deep, and runs across the entire lot. You’ll have to pedal through it hard, because the path that mom and her siblings carved out is getting old. She told me that they took a single gardening trowel and dug that long trench one summer, destroying a stranger’s yard. When the patch is freshly mowed, it’s a bit easier to get through because the bushy heads of grass aren’t pushing against your bike tires or making your legs itchy. Mowed or not, you just have to keep pedaling.

When you get to the end, turn around and wave to my mom, because she hates it when I disappear around the bend, away from her watchful eyes. From there, it’s pretty simple: head towards Weedo Park and take a right at the first stop sign. Count eleven or twelve houses down and BOOM you’ve made it! Look for the house with the hedges as tall as the roof—that’s Aunt Rox’s. You can push right through the gate and lean your bike up against the off-white siding. But seriously, make sure to lean your bike up, because we don’t want that silver van backing over it like that one time…

Once you’ve secured your bike, take a quick peek at the backyard. Are the cousins jumping on the trampoline? Is Aunt Rox smoking a cigarette under the kitchen window? If no one’s outside, you can go in through the side door. Mom always says to give it a few raps, but Aunt Rox says to just c’mon in (mom finds it rude when Aunt Rox enters our house with no warning). Whichever you decide to do, you’ll need to pull open the white screen door first and then the green wooden door—it shouldn’t be locked. Please take your shoes off at the landing before coming into the kitchen.

Hopefully, you’ll find Aunt Rox at the sink, humming a country tune and leaning more onto her left leg than the right. She’ll ask you, “How’s it going Bug-a-Boo?”, and then it’s your turn to fill her in on your life. You can tell her all about horse camp, the next movie you want to see at the drive-in, and you can ask her if you can have a sleepover tonight. All while washing the dishes, she’ll nod at your stories, throw her eyebrows to the sky in delight, and say “Of course you can stay! You’re always welcome.” She might ask you about your older sister, and your mom, and try to piece together what’s going on one road over, but she won’t push you past your limits. She knows you’re a kid.

Later that night, after playing dress up with Hannah, looking at CJ’s Yugioh cards, and walking to the park with Ashley, she’ll cook you dinner. It will probably be spaghetti and sausages, smothered in Ragu, with peppers and onions. There will be garlic bread on the table from the freezer section, and goodness, please smother it in Country Crock Butter from the huge gray tub in her fridge. I want you to smear as much of that yellow fat on your piece of garlic bread as you can, because one day you’ll be twenty-five, without your Aunt, staring at Country Crock in the grocery store, and you won’t be able to bring yourself to buy it. You’ll start crying in the refrigerated section, thinking about all the ways your family has fallen apart. You’ll want to bring the memories back, bring your Aunt Rox back, but you can’t. Deep down, you know butter can’t fix that.

After dinner, she’ll set up sleeping stations in the living room: some of us on the green carpeted floor, others on either of the two green sofas. Whoever is luckiest—probably CJ—will get to sleep with the Dinosaur Blanket, the pilling fabric so cozy, so familial. She’ll put in a VHS tape and turn off the lights, letting you talk while the movie is playing. She might go out for a smoke—one time…two times…three times… but don’t worry, she always comes back.

When the movie is over you’ll do bathroom checks and brush your teeth. Hannah and I are small enough to stand side-by-side, making faces in the vanity mirror; we’ll try to make room for you. Aunt Rox will pat our rears and tell us it’s time for bed.

Tucking us in, she’ll give you a quiet kiss on the forehead and whisper she loves you, just for you to hear. I want you to record this whisper, to never forget how it made you feel, because one day it will not exist. You’ll forget what her voice sounded like, or the songs she’d sing to you. Whatever she’s saying to you at this moment, do not let it go. Hold on to it forever and tell her you love her. Ask her not to go. Ask her to stay by your side the whole night—for the rest of your life. She’ll probably look at you and giggle, because you’re just a child who needs a companion for sleep, but I’m here to tell you it’s more than that.

Turn down the music when she sings and try to capture her voice.

Memorize the path she takes to vacuum the house.

Notice the way her feet turn when she walks.

Engrave her laugh into your soul.

Listen, if you’re going to Aunt Rox’s house tonight, I need to tell you that some things have changed. She doesn’t live there anymore. Her sister lives there now, even after the unspeakable. Mom, who always seems to take what isn’t hers, lives in Aunt Rox’s house. She put in air conditioning last summer—the audacity of that woman!—and she cut the hedges. The freaking hedges. Take what you want, but the hedges? They were as tall as Aunt Rox, as towering as her love…

I am sad to say that I can’t come with you to Aunt Rox’s house tonight because it is no longer hers and she is no longer here.

Aunt Rox, if I close my eyes, I can feel the summer night in Brook Park, then one where I hop the fence, barge into your kitchen, and give you a squishy hug. The ceiling fan is humming, one bulb burnt out, and my cousins are waiting to play with me. It’s like nothing has changed if I just stay here, in this beautiful moment, before everything ends. I’ll get out of the tub of Country Crock, inhale your sweet cigarette smoke, and listen to you whisper, “I love you,” just for you and me to hear. I’ll go to bed with nothing but sweet dreams.

This is my sweet dream.

– Rebecca Cybulski

Author’s Note: This piece is a chapter from my memoir, Suicide is Weird: A Compilation of Memories.