“Feedback”, Naia Smith ‘24

by Naia Smith she/her, ‘22Feedback

My hands are shakier than they usually are. e knot in my stomach tightens as I reach for the microphone. ere are so many faces in this crowd and for some reason, I’m still half expecting yours to be there. I’m still fostering that tiny piece of hope in my heart. at knot that was in my stomach has squirmed its way up to my chest, and if I keep thinking about you, I’m sure it’ll shove itself into my throat. at won’t be any good. But you were supposed to be here.

You were the one who put me up to this. You You were the one who put me up to this. You were the one who whispered that I had a gift, that I needed to share it. You mentioned classes. And now you’re the reason I’m frozen in front of an expectant audience, hand around the mic like I’m about to do something–but I can’t. I can’t get you out of my head. What would you I can’t get you out of my head. What would you say right now? You’d say to pretend everyone watching was naked. You’d say that I just need to relax, to close my eyes for a few seconds and pretend I’m performing for myself and nobody else. You’d mumble something about how nobody in the room could compare to me, and I’d probably laugh at that. And then I’d be ne. But thinking about what you would do right now isn’t helping. Because no matter how hard I think about it, you won’t appear in front of me. And somehow, that propels me forward, and I’m And somehow, that propels me forward, and I’m opening my mouth to sing before I realize what’s going on. e weight in my chest is the only thing keeping me from running off stage. Maybe I’m crying–maybe that’s why everyone’s applauding so early–but I can’t see them anymore, no, can’t hear them anymore. You won’t leave my head. leave my head. I remember our car rides together, years ago before you were sick. We’d drive down backroads with all the windows down and you’d lean out the front with your arms wide open. We always listened to the same songs, screamed the lyrics until our voices were hoarse. It’s so much harder to listen to them now. e weight in my chest disappears as I e weight in my chest disappears as I remember that feeling. I wish I could go back.

I can’t help but remember the last time I saw I can’t help but remember the last time I saw you. You were so thin; you’d looked so small you. You were so thin; you’d looked so small against that sea of stiff baby-blue sheets. Your dark green dyed hair looked dull and at against your pale skin; your eyes were sunken in, and your lips were chapped, turned downward in a gentle frown. At least when you were resting. But when you opened your eyes and spoke, it was like everything was going to be okay again. Suddenly my vision clears, and everyone’s standing up for me, some in tears as they applaud. I can’t help but smile as I let myself sob with them.

I think you’d be really proud of me.

I remember how much you hated that room. You I remember how much you hated that room. You hated that it always smelled like latex and hand sanitizer; you hated the gentle tones people spoke to you in, how the curtains were always drawn shut. You especially hated the endless beeping of the heart monitor next to you. You always told me how much it irritated you when all you wanted to do was sleep–it drove you insane because the interval never changed. So as I sat on your bed, I’d harmonized with it, and you’d laughed, and then I’d laughed, and then we’d both started crying. Because that was the day you’d gotten a date, a time frame, a polite apology from a quiet masked gure that we’d never see again because they couldn’t save you. never see again because they couldn’t save you.