Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

remind me so much of Dad.” And then I said something that I wasn't planning on saying, and didn't even want to say. As it came out of my mouth, I was ashamed that it was mixed with any of Dad's cells that I might have inhaled when we went to visit Ground Zero. “If I could have chosen, I would have chosen you!”
    She looked at me for a second, then stood up and walked out of the room. I wish she'd slammed the door, but she didn't. She closed it carefully, like she always did. I could hear that she didn't walk away.
    EXTREMELY DEPRESSED
    INCREDIBLY ALONE
    “Mom?”
    Nothing.
    I got out of bed and went to the door.
    “I take it back.”
    She didn't say anything, but I could hear her breathing. I put my hand on the doorknob, because I thought maybe her hand was on the doorknob on the other side.
    “I said I take it back.”
    “You can't take something like that back.”
    “Can you apologize for something like that?”
    Nothing.
    “Do you accept my apology?”
    “I don't know.”
    “How can you not know?”
    “Oskar, I don't know.”
    “Are you mad at me?”
    Nothing.
    “Mom?”
    “Yes.”
    “Are you still mad at me?”
    “No.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “I was never mad at you.”
    “What were you?”
    “Hurt.”
    INCREDIBLY ALONE
    I GUESS I FELL ASLEEP ON THE FLOOR.
    WHEN I WOKE UP, MOM WAS PULLING MY
    SHIRT OFF TO HELP ME GET INTO MY PJS,
    WHICH MEANS SHE MUST HAVE SEEN ALL
    OF MY BRUISES. I COUNTED THEM LAST
    NIGHT IN THE MIRROR AND THERE WERE
    FORTY-ONE. SOME OF THEM HAVE
    GOTTEN BIG, BUT MOST OF THEM ARE
    SMALL. I DON'T PUT THEM THERE FOR
    HER, BUT STILL I WANT HER TO ASK ME
    HOW I GOT THEM (EVEN THOUGH SHE
    PROBABLY KNOWS), AND TO FEEL SORRY
    FOR ME (BECAUSE SHE SHOULD REALIZE
    HOW HARD THINGS ARE FOR ME), AND TO
    FEEL TERRIBLE (BECAUSE AT LEAST SOME
    OF IT IS HER FAULT), AND TO PROMISE ME
    THAT SHE WON'T DIE AND LEAVE ME
    ALONE. BUT SHE DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING.
    I COULDN'T EVEN SEE THE LOOK IN HER
    EYES WHEN SHE SAW THE BRUISES,
    BECAUSE MY SHIRT WAS OVER MY HEAD,
    COVERING MY FACE LIKE A POCKET, OR A
    SKULL.

MY FEELINGS
    They are announcing flights over the speakers. We are not listening. They do not matter to us, because we are not going anywhere.
    I miss you already, Oskar. I missed you even when I was with you. That's been my problem. I miss what I already have, and I surround myself with things that are missing.
    Every time I put in a new page, I look at your grandfather. I am so relieved to see his face. It makes me feel safe. His shoulders are pinched. His spine is curved. In Dresden he was a giant. I'm glad that his hands are still rough. The sculptures never left them.
    I didn't notice until now that he is still wearing his wedding ring. I wonder if he put it on when he came back or if he wore it all those years. Before I came here I locked up the apartment. I turned off the lights and made sure none of the faucets leaked. It's hard to say goodbye to the place you've lived. It can be as hard as saying goodbye to a person. We moved in after we were married. It had more room than his apartment. We needed it. We needed room for all of the animals, and we needed room between us. Your grandfather bought the most expensive insurance policy. A man from the company came over to take pictures. If anything happened, they would be able to rebuild the apartment again exactly as it was. He took a roll of film. He took a picture of the floor, a picture of the fireplace, a picture of the bathtub. I never confused what I had with what I was. When the man left, your grandfather took out his own camera and started taking more pictures. What are you doing? I asked him.
    Better safe than sorry, he wrote. At the time I thought he was right, but I am not sure anymore.
    He took pictures of everything. Of the undersides of the shelves in the closet. Of the backs of the mirrors. Even the broken things. The things you would not want to remember. He could have rebuilt the apartment by taping together the pictures.
    And the doorknobs. He took a picture of every doorknob in the apartment. Every one. As if the world and its future depended on each doorknob. As if we would be thinking about doorknobs should we ever actually need to use the pictures of them.
    I don't know why that hurt me so much.
    I told him, They are not even nice doorknobs.
    He wrote, But they are our doorknobs.
    I was his too.
    He never took pictures of me, and we didn't buy life insurance.
    He kept one set of the pictures in his dresser. He taped