There was a ghost in each seat. We sat for many years, breathing nothingness in and out. Music didn’t exist, but we lived with the promise that one-day it would. We had no paintbrushes or books but we were allowed to speak to one another. “I will be a singer one day,” Stefani promised. “I will be a mother,” Henry thought. Laura said nothing. She floated from her seat and hovered above us. I will be free. I will be colorless. We will be so happy. There will be nothing to fight about after we have bodies. We looked forward to brewing coffee, waiting at the bus stop, vacuuming: all the insignificant things that make up a life. We longed to feel pain and hear love cries and joyful cries and lonely cries. To have eyes and noses and tongues. I prayed for the day we would turn to flesh and blood. I prayed for the day I could sweat and laugh and occupy space. The day before it happened, I thought about us shattering into stars. There was so much to look forward to. Sometimes I thought that it had to be science’s gift. Other times, I thought it must be God’s. I hummed a song I knew I would sing one day. But Laura stayed quiet. Laura harbored a truth in the spaces between her ribs. She leaned into me and said, “What a pretty skeleton you will be someday.”
Dayna Troisi is a poetry MFA candidate at Hofstra University where she also teaches Creative Writing. She works as a research assistant for the Berkshire Conference, the largest gathering for women historians worldwide. Her work has been published in Racked, Jezebel, Broadly, The Tiny Tim Review and elsewhere. Her main projects include poems and nonfiction essays that engage with feminism, queer experience and disability justice.