I am pretty sure I would go anywhere with him. <3
9.22.2011
9.02.2011
(No longer) For the taking-Part IV
Part I
Part II
Part III
It was a week or so before his cousin responded to my email. And when she did, I couldn't breath. I remember standing in my kitchen, and becoming conscious of this tightness in my chest and knowing I needed to breathe, just breathe for damn sake.
He spent all day cleaning his place. He was off for the day.
He waited until almost midnight to eat.
He went to McDonalds, got 2 double cheeseburgers and a drink.
His roommate found him the next morning in his bedroom. There was one double cheeseburger in the bag.
He had waited too long to eat. He had waited too long to take notice of his blood sugar.
As I type these words, I feel my face grow hot with anger and grief, even now. Damn it Kevin, why the hell weren't you paying attention to yourself?? How could you let yourself go so long that you DIED?? It seems so unnecessary.
He was cremated. His ashes were thrown off the California coast, scattered into the Pacific. There is no grave to visit.
Images of him flash in my head, flipping faster and faster through memories, so young, so full of life. And this picture, the most recent of him that I have:
The week I found out about Kevin's death is the same week my now ex-husband told me he no longer wanted to be married to me. To say the least, my emotions about these two things are all twisted and knotted and forever tangled. I tried to push out my thoughts of Kevin's death...I had to focus on my all-of-a-sudden crumbling life. Yet....
I stopped to grab a smoothie and a water on my way to one of my grad classes. I shoved the receipt into my bag without a thought. Sitting in class, I pulled my notepad out of my bag, and the receipt fell into my lap. The total was $5.38.
Between my 2nd & 3rd classes, I ran over to Wendy's for a quick lunch. The total? $5.38.
That evening, after my last class, I met with 2 friends at a local bar. I was sick to my stomach about all the shit going on in my life, and needed my friends. I ordered some foo-foo martini as we all talked. Our server's shift was over, so we had to close our tabs out before getting a new server. My total? $5.38.
It was barely a blip on my radar the first 2 times. But that time? I burst into tears, realizing the impact of 3 damn numbers in a certain order.
The significance? Back in the days of pagers, when my friends would page, they would add their name at the end of phone number so I would know who it was. 538 was Kev, for Kevin.
I sat in that bar and sobbed. I explained to my friends the numbers, the connection between Kevin and I, my grief at losing someone I had already lost, years ago. And someone played this song on the jukebox:
And now I can't hear that damn song without being filled with that overwhelming ache no one can explain but everyone can conjur up in their soul if they just think about it for a second or two.
And the number, 538? I see it all the time. I get it as a total somewhere. I wake up out of a dead sleep and it is 5:38am when I glance over at my alarm clock. I sit in traffic on the way home, and I happen to glance at the clock several times a week when it says 5:38. I don't do it on purpose. And each time, I just sorta laugh, because it's ridiculous.
When I knew there was no saving my marriage, I went to that park, in the hopes that I could find some strength in one of my old 'spots'. I sat in the parking lot of the park, but I couldn't move. I sat there, willing my hands to open the door, my legs to propel me down that path towards that 3rd curve, where I was so hoping I could find some answers, maybe a little bit of peace. But, no. I sat frozen in my car, staring at the walking path, fearful of everything.
I sat there until dusk. I felt very empty, but overwhelmingly full of so much. I closed my eyes for awhile, with my head on the steering wheel, arms cradled, exhausted from the crying, from the thinking, from the reasoning with myself, with God, with no one. I had felt alone for so long, but this was one of the worst moments.
I don't know how long I was asleep. I heard, in my head, someone say my name. I woke with a start, and for a brief moment didn't know where I was, how long I had been there, why I was there. I glanced out the windshield, seeing the path, remembering. I looked at the clock, 5:38. I shook my head, beginning to feel a little crazy about these numbers.
But suddenly? I did not feel so alone. I'm sure I sound as crazy as I felt, but I had the strongest feeling that he was there. My body was covered in goosebumps, and I felt a calmness I hadn't felt in a long time. I sat frozen, willing the feeling--him--to stay.
Of course, it passed.
Now: I still see that number on receipts, on the alarm clock. I still hear songs sometimes, and I think of him. And these things pop up at the most appropriate times, and I just smile and shake my head.
And I still grieve for him. I googled his name, and found a video someone posted of him, the year he passed away. And I sat in awe, to hear his laugh and his voice and to see his smile and see him move and be alive.... I cried and cried. I was hoping to find a video of him playing his guitar. I wish so badly that I still had the tapes of the songs he played and sent me. I wish so badly that he was alive....he had such a strong spirit and such a talent for music. It kills me to think that there is music out there, that none of us will ever experience, because it was in his head, his heart, and it was never transposed into a melody we all could hear.
There's a teeny part of me that knows it's ridiculous to grieve for someone I had lost so long ago. But that part of me is also the same part of me that thinks *I* am to blame for my ex-husband no longer loving me. It's irrational. So I push that part of me back down into the darkness, and push forward.
I miss him. I can't believe that after all he went through with drugs, the near-death experience in high school....that he would still ignore his blood sugar.
I walk through my days, carrying his tune within my soul, jumbled up and mixed with the tunes of so many other memories.
Part II
Part III
It was a week or so before his cousin responded to my email. And when she did, I couldn't breath. I remember standing in my kitchen, and becoming conscious of this tightness in my chest and knowing I needed to breathe, just breathe for damn sake.
He spent all day cleaning his place. He was off for the day.
He waited until almost midnight to eat.
He went to McDonalds, got 2 double cheeseburgers and a drink.
His roommate found him the next morning in his bedroom. There was one double cheeseburger in the bag.
He had waited too long to eat. He had waited too long to take notice of his blood sugar.
As I type these words, I feel my face grow hot with anger and grief, even now. Damn it Kevin, why the hell weren't you paying attention to yourself?? How could you let yourself go so long that you DIED?? It seems so unnecessary.
He was cremated. His ashes were thrown off the California coast, scattered into the Pacific. There is no grave to visit.
Images of him flash in my head, flipping faster and faster through memories, so young, so full of life. And this picture, the most recent of him that I have:
The week I found out about Kevin's death is the same week my now ex-husband told me he no longer wanted to be married to me. To say the least, my emotions about these two things are all twisted and knotted and forever tangled. I tried to push out my thoughts of Kevin's death...I had to focus on my all-of-a-sudden crumbling life. Yet....
I stopped to grab a smoothie and a water on my way to one of my grad classes. I shoved the receipt into my bag without a thought. Sitting in class, I pulled my notepad out of my bag, and the receipt fell into my lap. The total was $5.38.
Between my 2nd & 3rd classes, I ran over to Wendy's for a quick lunch. The total? $5.38.
That evening, after my last class, I met with 2 friends at a local bar. I was sick to my stomach about all the shit going on in my life, and needed my friends. I ordered some foo-foo martini as we all talked. Our server's shift was over, so we had to close our tabs out before getting a new server. My total? $5.38.
It was barely a blip on my radar the first 2 times. But that time? I burst into tears, realizing the impact of 3 damn numbers in a certain order.
The significance? Back in the days of pagers, when my friends would page, they would add their name at the end of phone number so I would know who it was. 538 was Kev, for Kevin.
I sat in that bar and sobbed. I explained to my friends the numbers, the connection between Kevin and I, my grief at losing someone I had already lost, years ago. And someone played this song on the jukebox:
And now I can't hear that damn song without being filled with that overwhelming ache no one can explain but everyone can conjur up in their soul if they just think about it for a second or two.
And the number, 538? I see it all the time. I get it as a total somewhere. I wake up out of a dead sleep and it is 5:38am when I glance over at my alarm clock. I sit in traffic on the way home, and I happen to glance at the clock several times a week when it says 5:38. I don't do it on purpose. And each time, I just sorta laugh, because it's ridiculous.
When I knew there was no saving my marriage, I went to that park, in the hopes that I could find some strength in one of my old 'spots'. I sat in the parking lot of the park, but I couldn't move. I sat there, willing my hands to open the door, my legs to propel me down that path towards that 3rd curve, where I was so hoping I could find some answers, maybe a little bit of peace. But, no. I sat frozen in my car, staring at the walking path, fearful of everything.
I sat there until dusk. I felt very empty, but overwhelmingly full of so much. I closed my eyes for awhile, with my head on the steering wheel, arms cradled, exhausted from the crying, from the thinking, from the reasoning with myself, with God, with no one. I had felt alone for so long, but this was one of the worst moments.
I don't know how long I was asleep. I heard, in my head, someone say my name. I woke with a start, and for a brief moment didn't know where I was, how long I had been there, why I was there. I glanced out the windshield, seeing the path, remembering. I looked at the clock, 5:38. I shook my head, beginning to feel a little crazy about these numbers.
But suddenly? I did not feel so alone. I'm sure I sound as crazy as I felt, but I had the strongest feeling that he was there. My body was covered in goosebumps, and I felt a calmness I hadn't felt in a long time. I sat frozen, willing the feeling--him--to stay.
Of course, it passed.
Now: I still see that number on receipts, on the alarm clock. I still hear songs sometimes, and I think of him. And these things pop up at the most appropriate times, and I just smile and shake my head.
And I still grieve for him. I googled his name, and found a video someone posted of him, the year he passed away. And I sat in awe, to hear his laugh and his voice and to see his smile and see him move and be alive.... I cried and cried. I was hoping to find a video of him playing his guitar. I wish so badly that I still had the tapes of the songs he played and sent me. I wish so badly that he was alive....he had such a strong spirit and such a talent for music. It kills me to think that there is music out there, that none of us will ever experience, because it was in his head, his heart, and it was never transposed into a melody we all could hear.
There's a teeny part of me that knows it's ridiculous to grieve for someone I had lost so long ago. But that part of me is also the same part of me that thinks *I* am to blame for my ex-husband no longer loving me. It's irrational. So I push that part of me back down into the darkness, and push forward.
I miss him. I can't believe that after all he went through with drugs, the near-death experience in high school....that he would still ignore his blood sugar.
I walk through my days, carrying his tune within my soul, jumbled up and mixed with the tunes of so many other memories.
9.01.2011
Re-post: For the taking-Part III
Twelve years.
For me: Heartache. Love. Commitment. Marriage. Graduation. Houses. Childbirth. Grad School.
For him: Heartache. Drugs. A child. Sobriety.
While pregnant, I walked the trail by the creek. Kevin came to mind at that 3rd curve, but I shoved him out of my mind, back to his little cave in the center of my heart. I would hear certain songs and my chest would clench.
I did a search for him on Myspace a couple of times, wondering if he was still alive. I know that sounds morbid, but I had an idea that things had not gone well back then.
In 2009, twelve years after that letter, after my life took another path, I received a message from him via Myspace.
He was alive.
And sober.
And healthy.
He apologized; I barely acknowledged it. We emailed back and forth a bit, about life:
He had a son, but rarely saw him, against his will. He was sober. He went to church, played for the band there, was involved in the youth program.
I told him about my path, my marriage, my child, my job.
I expressed relief at knowing he was okay after all these years.
He expressed relief at the fact that I even responded to his email.
A month later, I had a series of dreams about him, struggling, fighting, crying out. I sent him a message, asking if he is okay: Is he struggling with his sobriety? Is he taking care of his diabetes?
He responds that he is doing well, that his diabetes is fine, but we could all use a bit more strength and prayer. He reassures me that he will never go to that place again.
That was 10 months ago.
The night I wrote this post, I heard one of the two songs in the post. That's what prompted the post in the first place. I sat right where I'm sitting now, and felt a hollow pain in my gut. After hitting publish, I went to Myspace to send him a message.
I'm not sure what I would have said in the email. How I was sorry our paths had diverged? How I missed him? How I felt guilty even thinking about the 'us' of 12 years prior, since I adore my hubby? What??
I clicked on his profile, only to see several people's comments saying they would miss him and they loved him. Like an idiot, I left a comment: "Where are you Kevin? Are you okay??"
I then did a google search, feeling the bile rise into my mouth.
He died.
He died a few weeks after our last brief email conversation. I sat in this chair, where I sit now, and sobbed. I emailed his cousin via Myspace, asking her what had happened. I searched my county's medical examiner website, hoping there was an autopsy with his name on it, and dreading it at the same time. There was none.
I found his obit online. It mentions his son's name. I sobbed even more.
I spent a fair amount of time online, searching all over, trying to find out what happened.
I barely slept that night.
I waited for almost 3 weeks for his cousin's response.
For me: Heartache. Love. Commitment. Marriage. Graduation. Houses. Childbirth. Grad School.
For him: Heartache. Drugs. A child. Sobriety.
While pregnant, I walked the trail by the creek. Kevin came to mind at that 3rd curve, but I shoved him out of my mind, back to his little cave in the center of my heart. I would hear certain songs and my chest would clench.
I did a search for him on Myspace a couple of times, wondering if he was still alive. I know that sounds morbid, but I had an idea that things had not gone well back then.
In 2009, twelve years after that letter, after my life took another path, I received a message from him via Myspace.
He was alive.
And sober.
And healthy.
He apologized; I barely acknowledged it. We emailed back and forth a bit, about life:
He had a son, but rarely saw him, against his will. He was sober. He went to church, played for the band there, was involved in the youth program.
I told him about my path, my marriage, my child, my job.
I expressed relief at knowing he was okay after all these years.
He expressed relief at the fact that I even responded to his email.
A month later, I had a series of dreams about him, struggling, fighting, crying out. I sent him a message, asking if he is okay: Is he struggling with his sobriety? Is he taking care of his diabetes?
He responds that he is doing well, that his diabetes is fine, but we could all use a bit more strength and prayer. He reassures me that he will never go to that place again.
That was 10 months ago.
The night I wrote this post, I heard one of the two songs in the post. That's what prompted the post in the first place. I sat right where I'm sitting now, and felt a hollow pain in my gut. After hitting publish, I went to Myspace to send him a message.
I'm not sure what I would have said in the email. How I was sorry our paths had diverged? How I missed him? How I felt guilty even thinking about the 'us' of 12 years prior, since I adore my hubby? What??
I clicked on his profile, only to see several people's comments saying they would miss him and they loved him. Like an idiot, I left a comment: "Where are you Kevin? Are you okay??"
I then did a google search, feeling the bile rise into my mouth.
He died.
He died a few weeks after our last brief email conversation. I sat in this chair, where I sit now, and sobbed. I emailed his cousin via Myspace, asking her what had happened. I searched my county's medical examiner website, hoping there was an autopsy with his name on it, and dreading it at the same time. There was none.
I found his obit online. It mentions his son's name. I sobbed even more.
I spent a fair amount of time online, searching all over, trying to find out what happened.
I barely slept that night.
I waited for almost 3 weeks for his cousin's response.
8.31.2011
Re-post: For the taking-Part II
I had a spot where I went to think, to write, to just be. I shared it with others. Sometimes we would drive a friend's dirt bike around the area; other times we would climb down to the creek, skip stones, cross at all the low points, sit along the "shore". We shared the day's events, the plans for the weekend, our fears, our dreams, silly jokes, laughs.
I shared this place with Kevin. It was the place we hung out after school, when we both wanted to hide from home, from parents, from aching stresses. It somehow became "our" place.
I went there after the paramedics arrived.
I parked, slid down the dirt to the shore of the creek, grabbed some stones to throw. I couldn't quiet my insides. I didn't know what to do with myself.
***
I heard through mutual friends that he was okay. He was now forced to take notice of his blood sugar, and be responsible with his diabetes. He hadn't eaten, and he didn't have anyone who noticed. If I hadn't of stopped by....well.
We somehow started talking on the phone. Someone told him I had found him. He thanked me. I cried.
***
I graduated high school without ever seeing him again. I started college, discovered college boys, fell hard for a guy in my Tuesday/Thursday History class.
A park was built around our place, a running path shadowing the curve of the creek. Houses went up in the field. I ran 3 miles a day on that path. At the 3rd curve, I would stop, stare down at the creek, and ache. Wonder where he was, how he was, if he was still playing the guitar, skateboarding in the dark, wishing for his "perfect drug". I was so dramatic.
Then.
To be honest, I have absolutely no idea how we found one another. All I know is I got ahold of an address, I wrote a letter, and received a response. He was in California. Had moved there with his younger brother and mom, who was recently remarried. He was clean & sober. He was eating.
He called me. We began talking all the time. I had to buy phone cards. I would lie on the driveway under the pear tree, stare at the stars, and listen to his voice. My life revolved around those phone calls. I would write lyrics & send them to him. He would write music to them, and play the melody over the phone for me.
We made plans. I applied to a college near his home. He got a job. He started looking for apartments. We wrote one another non-stop; I would receive at least one letter a day. There was an old house several blocks from the beach with our names on it; he'd called me as soon as he'd seen it. I can still close my eyes and imagine my sitting on the front steps with a journal on my knees, while he skateboarded on the sidewalk.
We made plans. I was his for the taking.
He was lonely there. His brother was growing up, and had his own friends. His mother was a newlywed. He was sober. I convinced him to apply for jobs, make new friends. We were counting down the days until I would be there.
He got a job, made a few friends. He sounded happy. He would call me late at night, and tell me how peaceful it was to sit along the rocky part of the shore at dawn, just before he surfed. He promised to take me there; it would be our new "place".
The phone calls became a bit sporadic, the letters almost non-existent. I would call and his mother would answer, telling me he wasn't home from work. I worried. That bitch with no self-esteem took over-I was afraid maybe he didn't want me after all? Maybe he didn't want me to move out there? Maybe...?
When we did talk, he was vague, saying he was working extra hours to save up for our house together.
One day I met the mailman at the edge of my driveway, pulling in from class. He handed me two letters: One was an acceptance letter from the college near his home. The other had a California postmark, but I didn't recognize the handwriting. I sat down on the driveway hard, when I read it.
It was from some chick, telling me to leave him the fuck alone, that he had moved on to better things, and suggesting that I do the same. It ended with something about how he was great in bed. My mind twisted those words around and around until I felt like vomiting. I don't even know.
If she was hoping to upset me, she succeeded. I called his house, and got his mother. She was pretty upset, saying she hadn't seen him in three days.
I called back a few days later. She still hadn't seen him. She had a bad feeling, and so did I.
He didn't stay sober. He never called me back. He never wrote me again.
I didn't move to California. I didn't transfer to the school there. And I didn't hear from him for 12 years.
I shared this place with Kevin. It was the place we hung out after school, when we both wanted to hide from home, from parents, from aching stresses. It somehow became "our" place.
I went there after the paramedics arrived.
I parked, slid down the dirt to the shore of the creek, grabbed some stones to throw. I couldn't quiet my insides. I didn't know what to do with myself.
***
I heard through mutual friends that he was okay. He was now forced to take notice of his blood sugar, and be responsible with his diabetes. He hadn't eaten, and he didn't have anyone who noticed. If I hadn't of stopped by....well.
We somehow started talking on the phone. Someone told him I had found him. He thanked me. I cried.
***
I graduated high school without ever seeing him again. I started college, discovered college boys, fell hard for a guy in my Tuesday/Thursday History class.
A park was built around our place, a running path shadowing the curve of the creek. Houses went up in the field. I ran 3 miles a day on that path. At the 3rd curve, I would stop, stare down at the creek, and ache. Wonder where he was, how he was, if he was still playing the guitar, skateboarding in the dark, wishing for his "perfect drug". I was so dramatic.
Then.
To be honest, I have absolutely no idea how we found one another. All I know is I got ahold of an address, I wrote a letter, and received a response. He was in California. Had moved there with his younger brother and mom, who was recently remarried. He was clean & sober. He was eating.
He called me. We began talking all the time. I had to buy phone cards. I would lie on the driveway under the pear tree, stare at the stars, and listen to his voice. My life revolved around those phone calls. I would write lyrics & send them to him. He would write music to them, and play the melody over the phone for me.
We made plans. I applied to a college near his home. He got a job. He started looking for apartments. We wrote one another non-stop; I would receive at least one letter a day. There was an old house several blocks from the beach with our names on it; he'd called me as soon as he'd seen it. I can still close my eyes and imagine my sitting on the front steps with a journal on my knees, while he skateboarded on the sidewalk.
He was lonely there. His brother was growing up, and had his own friends. His mother was a newlywed. He was sober. I convinced him to apply for jobs, make new friends. We were counting down the days until I would be there.
He got a job, made a few friends. He sounded happy. He would call me late at night, and tell me how peaceful it was to sit along the rocky part of the shore at dawn, just before he surfed. He promised to take me there; it would be our new "place".
The phone calls became a bit sporadic, the letters almost non-existent. I would call and his mother would answer, telling me he wasn't home from work. I worried. That bitch with no self-esteem took over-I was afraid maybe he didn't want me after all? Maybe he didn't want me to move out there? Maybe...?
When we did talk, he was vague, saying he was working extra hours to save up for our house together.
One day I met the mailman at the edge of my driveway, pulling in from class. He handed me two letters: One was an acceptance letter from the college near his home. The other had a California postmark, but I didn't recognize the handwriting. I sat down on the driveway hard, when I read it.
It was from some chick, telling me to leave him the fuck alone, that he had moved on to better things, and suggesting that I do the same. It ended with something about how he was great in bed. My mind twisted those words around and around until I felt like vomiting. I don't even know.
If she was hoping to upset me, she succeeded. I called his house, and got his mother. She was pretty upset, saying she hadn't seen him in three days.
I called back a few days later. She still hadn't seen him. She had a bad feeling, and so did I.
He didn't stay sober. He never called me back. He never wrote me again.
I didn't move to California. I didn't transfer to the school there. And I didn't hear from him for 12 years.
8.30.2011
Re-post: For the taking-Part 1
Originally posted 1/26/10. Reposting so I can finally finish his story.
***
When I wrote this post, I didn't know what I know now. I was in an oblivious stupor, something I wish I could take back.
As I said in that post, I haven't written about him other than the brief entry here. But I am going to do it now. I have to.
Here is what I previously wrote about him:
His name was Kevin.
He was the middle child. His older brother was the same age as me, in the same grade, but never around. He had a younger brother that he was really protective of. His father wasn't around, and his mother worked hard to provide for her boys. I vaguely remember a boyfriend of his mom's, and Kevin telling me that he didn't really like the guy, that the guy scared the shit out of him and his younger brother.
When we met, he smoked weed with other friends in my group. But when he heard from a mutual friend that shit bothered me, he stopped. At least for awhile.
When we were all hanging out, there were times we would drink. And he was a lush. It still makes me smile, thinking of him stumbling all over the place in our friend's house one night. He had two left feet when he was drunk, and he was a gigglebox.
I remember our first kiss, full of beer & Skittles, lust & fear. He was leaned against the living room wall of the now-abandoned home of one of our friends. Why do I remember the look in his eye, but not the taste of his lips?
He was full of music and life. He encouraged me to write. I argued with him about his diabetes. He played the bass guitar while I wrote lyrics to songs still unsung. We fell asleep on the phone many times- I would wake in the morning to the dial tone at the other end of the phone. Or, sometimes, the soft purr of his snore.
He said sweet things that he meant, that crushed my heart.
He was non-judgemental, and careless with his blood sugar.
I took his virginity. I cried.
He wanted more; I wanted more.
Somehow, we wanted different things.
I remember arguing in the kitchen of my father's house. I remember seeing an anger I had never seen before, directed towards me. I let him walk out the door.
*****
Months went by; the rest of the summer burned off, and school started again. I would hear his laugh in the halls sometimes, and my stomach would drop.
I really missed him.
I had heard from others that he was doing drugs, skipping school, working to help his mother pay the bills. I heard he was still ignoring his blood sugar.
I am not made of magic, but I drove by his house anyway, skipping class.
I stood outside the door, nervous and close to tears. He didn't answer. I walked around back, hoping no one saw me. I knew how to sneak in the back door.
I slid up the stairs to the room he shared with his younger brother, melodies luring me behind his closed door. I knocked, whispered his name.
I opened the door and found him sprawled on his bed. He looked peaceful.
He wouldn't wake up.
I'll spare you the details, but I can say that I have never pushed a needle in someone's skin before, or since. I heard my blood rush in my ears. I couldn't breathe. I called 911. I shook him awake, barely. Blood sugar. I ran down the stairs, let the paramedics in, and bailed.
That was the last time I ever saw him.
***
When I wrote this post, I didn't know what I know now. I was in an oblivious stupor, something I wish I could take back.
As I said in that post, I haven't written about him other than the brief entry here. But I am going to do it now. I have to.
Here is what I previously wrote about him:
"I met him when I was almost 17. It was a hard, dark, lonely time in my stupid teenaged life. He was younger than me, by 2 years. I remember standing at my locker, and feeling someone's eyes on me. When I turned around, he was across the hall, staring. When I caught him staring, he blushed, but did not turn away. He maintained eye contact, and amazingly, smiled. There was weeks of this before I finally broke a mutual friend, begging for him to introduce us. I shouldn't have been nervous or worried.
We met in the hall. We were both late to class; the bell had already rang. I was so down that day; I was staring into my locker, when he said my name. I turned around and there he was, same smile, same shine in the eyes.
I fell hard for him. My friends made fun of me, since he was 2 years younger than me. It was I who picked him up when we would get together; he didn't have his license. He was quiet but not with me. He was silly, goofy, kooky with me. He was so brilliantly talented with music. He was one of the first in well over a year that I allowed to read my poetry. I opened my journals and my heart to him. He wasn't like any of the others. He didn't dress like them, he didn't act like them (other than the quiet part). He acted as though I was fragile when we were together, but helped me break myself when I needed it. He taught me to skateboard (I sucked). We talked on the phone for hours. We laid on my driveway & stared at stars while telling one another our deepest thoughts, our strongest fears.
I took his virginity. He broke my heart. Twice. He deserted me when I needed him so badly, the first time. The second time he deserted me, he fell deep into drugs. I couldn't forgive him, for years. I spent YEARS hurting because of him, because of us. I still get angry & disgusted when I think about how we ended. I still ache when I think of his eyes, his voice, his devotion, his dreams."
He was the middle child. His older brother was the same age as me, in the same grade, but never around. He had a younger brother that he was really protective of. His father wasn't around, and his mother worked hard to provide for her boys. I vaguely remember a boyfriend of his mom's, and Kevin telling me that he didn't really like the guy, that the guy scared the shit out of him and his younger brother.
When we met, he smoked weed with other friends in my group. But when he heard from a mutual friend that shit bothered me, he stopped. At least for awhile.
When we were all hanging out, there were times we would drink. And he was a lush. It still makes me smile, thinking of him stumbling all over the place in our friend's house one night. He had two left feet when he was drunk, and he was a gigglebox.
I remember our first kiss, full of beer & Skittles, lust & fear. He was leaned against the living room wall of the now-abandoned home of one of our friends. Why do I remember the look in his eye, but not the taste of his lips?
He was full of music and life. He encouraged me to write. I argued with him about his diabetes. He played the bass guitar while I wrote lyrics to songs still unsung. We fell asleep on the phone many times- I would wake in the morning to the dial tone at the other end of the phone. Or, sometimes, the soft purr of his snore.
He said sweet things that he meant, that crushed my heart.
He was non-judgemental, and careless with his blood sugar.
I took his virginity. I cried.
He wanted more; I wanted more.
Somehow, we wanted different things.
I remember arguing in the kitchen of my father's house. I remember seeing an anger I had never seen before, directed towards me. I let him walk out the door.
*****
Months went by; the rest of the summer burned off, and school started again. I would hear his laugh in the halls sometimes, and my stomach would drop.
I really missed him.
I had heard from others that he was doing drugs, skipping school, working to help his mother pay the bills. I heard he was still ignoring his blood sugar.
I am not made of magic, but I drove by his house anyway, skipping class.
I stood outside the door, nervous and close to tears. He didn't answer. I walked around back, hoping no one saw me. I knew how to sneak in the back door.
I slid up the stairs to the room he shared with his younger brother, melodies luring me behind his closed door. I knocked, whispered his name.
I opened the door and found him sprawled on his bed. He looked peaceful.
He wouldn't wake up.
I'll spare you the details, but I can say that I have never pushed a needle in someone's skin before, or since. I heard my blood rush in my ears. I couldn't breathe. I called 911. I shook him awake, barely. Blood sugar. I ran down the stairs, let the paramedics in, and bailed.
That was the last time I ever saw him.
8.29.2011
8.23.2011
My girl
Tonight I tickled my girl until she lost her breath.
Tonight she said to me: "Will you put me in your pocket so I can be with you all the time?"
Tonight we kissed each other all over, in silly spots, like our earlobs and between our fingers.
Tonight she gave me raspberries on my belly.
Tonight she brushed my hair out of my face and told me I was beautiful.
Tonight she told me she wants to be near me forever, even when I'm old and crabby.
Tonight she held my hand as we laid in bed together, telling me she was happy.
I am still holding my breath.
Tonight she said to me: "Will you put me in your pocket so I can be with you all the time?"
Tonight we kissed each other all over, in silly spots, like our earlobs and between our fingers.
Tonight she gave me raspberries on my belly.
Tonight she brushed my hair out of my face and told me I was beautiful.
Tonight she told me she wants to be near me forever, even when I'm old and crabby.
Tonight she held my hand as we laid in bed together, telling me she was happy.
I am still holding my breath.
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