by Zach Keali’i Murphy
You’ve given the worst birthday gifts, and I’ve kept all of them. There’s the crocodile-shaped keychain that hasn’t left my key ring. Its sharp and pointy tail has torn a hole through the pockets in all of my pairs of pants. Sometimes, the tail even scrapes against my thigh until it bleeds. Then there’s the faulty leaf blower that doesn’t blow any air. I didn’t have the heart to tell you that it didn’t work when I removed it from the box. So when you go out to eat lunch with your friends, I take out the secret leaf blower from the corner of the garage and clean up the yard. And then there’s the abstract painting you picked up from the local art fair. You were so excited to show it to me. We decided to hang it on our bedroom wall. When the moonlight shines through the crack of our blinds, the painting looks like a pair of demented eyes. When I wake up in the middle of the night, I try not to look at it. It gives me nightmares. I always told you how cool I thought that painting was because I knew how much you loved it.
And here I am, hunched over at the side of your hospital bed. You were just crossing the street. I don’t know what all of these beeping machines mean, but they sound like they’re designed to make someone worry. I wish I could hear your voice right now. You look as beautiful as always, like a sunset following the departure of an afternoon storm. You’ll be alright. I know you will. You’ll always be alright, right? You have to be. You’ll be alright forever. Forever. I’m thinking about your gifts. I’ll never be able to get rid of them. Never.
Zach Keali’i Murphy is a Hawaii-born writer with a background in cinema. His stories appear in Raritan Quarterly, Reed Magazine, The Coachella Review, Bamboo Ridge, Another Chicago Magazine, The Vassar Review, FOLIO, and more. He has published the chapbook Tiny Universes (Selcouth Station Press). He lives with his wonderful wife, Kelly, in St. Paul, Minnesota.
January House Literary Journal 
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