Terminal Landing: show
I'm in that perpetual state of half-sleep I can only get on the occasional Greyhound line. It feels longer than it's been, and the straight-east direction of the I-70 doesn't help matters. The surroundings of the area haven't changed worth a lick; whenever I open my eyes I feel like we've gone nowhere. It's droning constant; my head against your arm, you looking down on me with amused care, occasionally stroking my hair as if every strand matters. As the surroundings continue on the same path, I wonder if we have as well; I know where we're heading, but I don't know if this means anything, if I'm just over-thinking this.
I let it ride until you tell me “We just crossed the border.” I open my eyes to take it in, surprised to see that the bland plains of Colorado's east border are the same as the monotonous plains of Kansas' west border. This doesn't feel like it belongs to you, much less you belonging to it. The second we were assigned to trade poems, you seemed far too regal for Wyoming, much less the dead-and-gone plains of Kansas. Your writing was straightforward, grand, hardly poetic, but spoke of something bigger than miles of retired brown wheat can tell.
Maybe it’s just you. The way you’re tall enough to bathe in clouds, the way you shelter me under the crook of your arm, the way you pretend not to care when your heart is bleeding. Something grand, something regal, something untouchable… not dry, barren, and bland.
You notice my surprise in a way only you can communicate. “Yeah. It's not much, but... welcome. We're almost there, first town east of the Colorado border. Papa's gonna be waiting for us right outside the stop. He doesn't work on Sundays. Guess even crime takes a Sabbath.”
The thinly veiled hostility is palatable. I glance up at you, concerned. You look down at me how you always do when I try helping you. “It's all good,” you insist. “We're gonna be fine. We haven't talked in awhile, so... it'll be fun.”
As usual, you end anything close to an emotional thought with vague wry amusement. I shake my head, but as usual, say nothing, running my fingers across your arm to communicate comfort. In exchange, you stroke my hair again, so intently I wonder if you think you're holding me together at the seams, even as I comfort you from things you cannot hide. I surrender to your touch, dozing off for another five minutes until the journey slows. I open my eyes, seeing that we're off the highway.
You ignore my gaze, facing home like a soldier facing the enemy.
The Greyhound pulls into the McDonald’s parking lot, which rings true of what kind of town we’re at. We’re along the highway in Goodland, Kansas, where only a few fast food jaunts by the interstate stand between us and what’s left of the dust bowl. Everything outside of the window is being slowly touched by autumn. Few leaves have fallen, but there’s a sense of exhausted melancholy, a small town preparing to hibernate for the winter. I lay against your shoulder, smiling as sweetly as I can manage, wondering how a violet can bloom in such an environment.
Your eyes scan the town as if you’ve never been here before, as if your father isn’t waiting for us by the only stagnant car for miles. “Looks like we’re here,” you announce just as the driver starts his arrival spiel. You gently, coyly nudge me off of your shoulder as I listen to him prattle on about beautiful, windswept Goodland. We’ve just crossed the border from Colorado and he’s suddenly the visitor center. Your statement of “looks like we’re here” is more accurate.
You groan, from the six-hour bus ride or something bigger, and start to stretch, bumping me off of your chest as you reach for the bag. You grab it, and the bus finally parks, stalling because surely no one wants to get off the bus in Goodland, Kansas, except these two fools, one of whom possibly knows not what she is getting into.
Curious eyes watch us leave. I see someone reach for you, tapping your leg briskly. You immediately balk, replying with toneless intensity “please don't.” I cringe, knowing that whoever it was knows as little about your reaction as they really should. The stranger, as faceless and voiceless as a parent from a Peanuts special, points above you at a remaining bag. You close your eyes with a deep sigh and reach for it, mumbling an apology. I reach for your shoulder, but you evade me, despite me being the only safe touch you know. From the corner of the bag, I see the red handle of a kitchen utensil that I don't think I've ever seen before, startling me enough to keep my hands off of you.
The bus takes two seconds after we’re out to pull away, all too eager to leave. It spins dust in the distance, and for some reason both of us watch it as it speeds away. I continue to look around, cryptically entranced. There’s nothing but an empty highway, a barely built city on its sides. I keep expecting more, but don't receive anything other than dust, empty highways, truck stops, trailer parks, burger stands, and your father's car.
“Looks like we’re here,” you repeat, your trademark tightlipped grin almost audible.
I nod slowly, picking up a suitcase. I hear the call of birds in the distance, and the distant sound of a car starting up. Every step seems to bring us further away from the car rather than closer, but I look over to see your face to decipher if my nervousness is warranted. Your smile is still sewn shut by defense, and your eyes could shoot a plane out of the sky, but there’s a little color in your cheeks, and a gleam in your eye. I figure if you can be happy, so can I, even if I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel.
I nearly walk past your father as he greets you on the sidewalk. At first, he’s quiet, greeting you with a hello and taking your bags. I wonder at first if he’s a personal guide as I take my bags to his trunk, as if Goodland has any need for guides. He sets them down next to mine, not even regarding me with a smile or a motion of acknowledgement. At first I wonder how this man could be anyone’s father; he’s a brick wall of intensity. It isn’t even his appearance, but it’s his demeanor- on the surface level, he’s just cold, untouchable, startlingly brutal. He walks away, and either the ground shakes or I do.
Invisibility is never a new sensation, but I’m already set off-guard by his abject blindness until I notice him, arms outspread, embracing you so closely as if he thought you forgot him. I feel like an intruder, looking away until he lets you go. As I do, I notice that even as befuddled and amused as you look by his affection, a single tear escapes your eye, dyed black by mascara. You’ll try and deny it later, but I know the truth, and that’s enough.
The sound of the birds flying by, heading south as could be expected, catches my attention again. A black cloud of crows pass by, less mundane in a group. They caw in graceless, disorganized clusters, desperate to be heard, low enough to grab my attention but not low enough to reach me, no longer crying “join us, join us”, no longer a desperate means of escape, my flying days long behind me. Even as I watch them go, a part of me still wonders what it’d be like if I were to try and follow them, join the murder, see where I land.
Eventually I hear you again. “April, over here.” I stop counting crows, presuming they disappear into the dust. You stand next to your father, and now I get it despite both of you looking barely alike, aside from Hispanic heritage. Even as you tower over him by a foot while he's nearly twice your width, your skin purer than mine could ever hope to be and his nearly worked off the bone; you looking full of energy and him looking perpetually sleepy, you both smile the same, you both tear up the same, and the air between you two speaks of mutual understanding and respect, to the point where I'm caught off guard, to the point where I can trust him ever so slightly.
I stand in front of you two, smiling a greeting and waving. Your father speaks, his voice warm, with a distinct edge. “Hello, senora,” he says, not moving but still smiling. “I'm sure Violet has mentioned me to you at least once, but not as much the other way around. My name is David. What is yours?”
My eyes nearly fall out of my sockets at a task far more demanding than he could know. I grab my scarf out of instinct, as if it hasn't become part of my skin at this point. Thankfully, as you've a habit of doing, you save me. “This is April,” you say, adding “I just said her name, papa.”
David laughs, eyes closed. “My apologies. My attention to detail wanes with age.”
Before he can address me again, you continue to explain. “Sorry, she's not much for talking.” That's an understatement, and I fear he'll question you more, but thankfully he understands, walking to the car. Still unsettled, I follow, going to the backseat. You stretch your arms to the sky, nothing but emptiness around you, with your black pants and tight white tank top contrasting you to the endless shades of brown around us. I watch you walk to the passenger side, taking care to sit beside your father so you can push your seat far enough back to reach me. Your father starts the car, and you smile at me. I smile back, but can't hold your gaze, because I already know I'm an internal earthquake right now, not sure what he thinks, not sure how I feel, not sure how things ever got this personal.
Your father tries to make conversation. “So.” Immediately his words feel heavier. You didn't tell me much about him. It's clear to see, however, that David Domingo is very straightforward, alarmingly yet disarmingly so, and I could only watch to see his actions.
“Violet,” he says, “is this your...”
Silence reigns. Silence, my constant companion, my second language. I read tension in the seconds that slowly tick by. He faces the road, and you look back at me, not sure how to answer the question, to me or to him. I look away, terrified at making the choice for you.
You settle for the safe answer. “Yes, papa. She's a good friend of mine.”
He nods, gravely serious for just a moment, but I watch him forcibly lighten up, as if he's trying to remove a magnet from his chest.. “Ah. Regardless, it is... very nice to meet you, April. I don't know too much about you, but I look forward to getting to know you and talk to you.”
You're going to be waiting a long time, I think to myself, but I just nod. You swallow, sitting straight up against your chair. I keep watching you, analyzing your every move, trying to find the reason behind all of them, but coming up short with a bunch of conflicting answers that I swiftly realize all boil down to my own fears reflected in you.
Absently, you turn on the cassette player, and a new voice speaks. Spoken word, very organized, a lecture much like our professors would give us, whether it be about botany, poetry, or any of the classes we share to get to our divergent destinations. As I listen to it, I piece it together just as you sigh, resigned.
“Some things never change,” you say.
David turns right, not making eye contact. “I'm sorry,” he says. “It was the last thing I was listening to.”
You just shake your head, and look out the window. I listen to the words disappear slowly as David turns the volume down. I hear the word God multiple times, and suddenly I understand, the preacher's words. “God is of utmost importance” dominates my thoughts, bouncing around in the silence, replaying them in a different light over and over. No one speaks again, leaving me to look around at the classic small town build of Goodland. It looks like a thousand different towns, but everything has a piece of you in it. I watch more crows fly over us, knowing what's best for them, and like you, knowing it's not here. I wish I wasn't scared to hold your hand right now, because I don't know who needs comfort more.
The silence starts to drive me mad, so I dig into my bag, the surroundings too dull to gather further opinion from. My hand brushes against an empty journal, periwinkle with a white lily on it. I consider it for a moment, but my mind already starts to drift toward her memories, towards the note in the beginning of the notebook, a hundred empty pages that follow it. I again wonder why I carry it around with me. I pull my jacket over it, wishing that out of sight meant out of mind, and zip the bag up. I reach for your hand for a moment, trying to think of you and forget about her, trying not to think at all, trying to make the inside of my mind as silent as everything else.
I let it ride until you tell me “We just crossed the border.” I open my eyes to take it in, surprised to see that the bland plains of Colorado's east border are the same as the monotonous plains of Kansas' west border. This doesn't feel like it belongs to you, much less you belonging to it. The second we were assigned to trade poems, you seemed far too regal for Wyoming, much less the dead-and-gone plains of Kansas. Your writing was straightforward, grand, hardly poetic, but spoke of something bigger than miles of retired brown wheat can tell.
Maybe it’s just you. The way you’re tall enough to bathe in clouds, the way you shelter me under the crook of your arm, the way you pretend not to care when your heart is bleeding. Something grand, something regal, something untouchable… not dry, barren, and bland.
You notice my surprise in a way only you can communicate. “Yeah. It's not much, but... welcome. We're almost there, first town east of the Colorado border. Papa's gonna be waiting for us right outside the stop. He doesn't work on Sundays. Guess even crime takes a Sabbath.”
The thinly veiled hostility is palatable. I glance up at you, concerned. You look down at me how you always do when I try helping you. “It's all good,” you insist. “We're gonna be fine. We haven't talked in awhile, so... it'll be fun.”
As usual, you end anything close to an emotional thought with vague wry amusement. I shake my head, but as usual, say nothing, running my fingers across your arm to communicate comfort. In exchange, you stroke my hair again, so intently I wonder if you think you're holding me together at the seams, even as I comfort you from things you cannot hide. I surrender to your touch, dozing off for another five minutes until the journey slows. I open my eyes, seeing that we're off the highway.
You ignore my gaze, facing home like a soldier facing the enemy.
The Greyhound pulls into the McDonald’s parking lot, which rings true of what kind of town we’re at. We’re along the highway in Goodland, Kansas, where only a few fast food jaunts by the interstate stand between us and what’s left of the dust bowl. Everything outside of the window is being slowly touched by autumn. Few leaves have fallen, but there’s a sense of exhausted melancholy, a small town preparing to hibernate for the winter. I lay against your shoulder, smiling as sweetly as I can manage, wondering how a violet can bloom in such an environment.
Your eyes scan the town as if you’ve never been here before, as if your father isn’t waiting for us by the only stagnant car for miles. “Looks like we’re here,” you announce just as the driver starts his arrival spiel. You gently, coyly nudge me off of your shoulder as I listen to him prattle on about beautiful, windswept Goodland. We’ve just crossed the border from Colorado and he’s suddenly the visitor center. Your statement of “looks like we’re here” is more accurate.
You groan, from the six-hour bus ride or something bigger, and start to stretch, bumping me off of your chest as you reach for the bag. You grab it, and the bus finally parks, stalling because surely no one wants to get off the bus in Goodland, Kansas, except these two fools, one of whom possibly knows not what she is getting into.
Curious eyes watch us leave. I see someone reach for you, tapping your leg briskly. You immediately balk, replying with toneless intensity “please don't.” I cringe, knowing that whoever it was knows as little about your reaction as they really should. The stranger, as faceless and voiceless as a parent from a Peanuts special, points above you at a remaining bag. You close your eyes with a deep sigh and reach for it, mumbling an apology. I reach for your shoulder, but you evade me, despite me being the only safe touch you know. From the corner of the bag, I see the red handle of a kitchen utensil that I don't think I've ever seen before, startling me enough to keep my hands off of you.
The bus takes two seconds after we’re out to pull away, all too eager to leave. It spins dust in the distance, and for some reason both of us watch it as it speeds away. I continue to look around, cryptically entranced. There’s nothing but an empty highway, a barely built city on its sides. I keep expecting more, but don't receive anything other than dust, empty highways, truck stops, trailer parks, burger stands, and your father's car.
“Looks like we’re here,” you repeat, your trademark tightlipped grin almost audible.
I nod slowly, picking up a suitcase. I hear the call of birds in the distance, and the distant sound of a car starting up. Every step seems to bring us further away from the car rather than closer, but I look over to see your face to decipher if my nervousness is warranted. Your smile is still sewn shut by defense, and your eyes could shoot a plane out of the sky, but there’s a little color in your cheeks, and a gleam in your eye. I figure if you can be happy, so can I, even if I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel.
I nearly walk past your father as he greets you on the sidewalk. At first, he’s quiet, greeting you with a hello and taking your bags. I wonder at first if he’s a personal guide as I take my bags to his trunk, as if Goodland has any need for guides. He sets them down next to mine, not even regarding me with a smile or a motion of acknowledgement. At first I wonder how this man could be anyone’s father; he’s a brick wall of intensity. It isn’t even his appearance, but it’s his demeanor- on the surface level, he’s just cold, untouchable, startlingly brutal. He walks away, and either the ground shakes or I do.
Invisibility is never a new sensation, but I’m already set off-guard by his abject blindness until I notice him, arms outspread, embracing you so closely as if he thought you forgot him. I feel like an intruder, looking away until he lets you go. As I do, I notice that even as befuddled and amused as you look by his affection, a single tear escapes your eye, dyed black by mascara. You’ll try and deny it later, but I know the truth, and that’s enough.
The sound of the birds flying by, heading south as could be expected, catches my attention again. A black cloud of crows pass by, less mundane in a group. They caw in graceless, disorganized clusters, desperate to be heard, low enough to grab my attention but not low enough to reach me, no longer crying “join us, join us”, no longer a desperate means of escape, my flying days long behind me. Even as I watch them go, a part of me still wonders what it’d be like if I were to try and follow them, join the murder, see where I land.
Eventually I hear you again. “April, over here.” I stop counting crows, presuming they disappear into the dust. You stand next to your father, and now I get it despite both of you looking barely alike, aside from Hispanic heritage. Even as you tower over him by a foot while he's nearly twice your width, your skin purer than mine could ever hope to be and his nearly worked off the bone; you looking full of energy and him looking perpetually sleepy, you both smile the same, you both tear up the same, and the air between you two speaks of mutual understanding and respect, to the point where I'm caught off guard, to the point where I can trust him ever so slightly.
I stand in front of you two, smiling a greeting and waving. Your father speaks, his voice warm, with a distinct edge. “Hello, senora,” he says, not moving but still smiling. “I'm sure Violet has mentioned me to you at least once, but not as much the other way around. My name is David. What is yours?”
My eyes nearly fall out of my sockets at a task far more demanding than he could know. I grab my scarf out of instinct, as if it hasn't become part of my skin at this point. Thankfully, as you've a habit of doing, you save me. “This is April,” you say, adding “I just said her name, papa.”
David laughs, eyes closed. “My apologies. My attention to detail wanes with age.”
Before he can address me again, you continue to explain. “Sorry, she's not much for talking.” That's an understatement, and I fear he'll question you more, but thankfully he understands, walking to the car. Still unsettled, I follow, going to the backseat. You stretch your arms to the sky, nothing but emptiness around you, with your black pants and tight white tank top contrasting you to the endless shades of brown around us. I watch you walk to the passenger side, taking care to sit beside your father so you can push your seat far enough back to reach me. Your father starts the car, and you smile at me. I smile back, but can't hold your gaze, because I already know I'm an internal earthquake right now, not sure what he thinks, not sure how I feel, not sure how things ever got this personal.
Your father tries to make conversation. “So.” Immediately his words feel heavier. You didn't tell me much about him. It's clear to see, however, that David Domingo is very straightforward, alarmingly yet disarmingly so, and I could only watch to see his actions.
“Violet,” he says, “is this your...”
Silence reigns. Silence, my constant companion, my second language. I read tension in the seconds that slowly tick by. He faces the road, and you look back at me, not sure how to answer the question, to me or to him. I look away, terrified at making the choice for you.
You settle for the safe answer. “Yes, papa. She's a good friend of mine.”
He nods, gravely serious for just a moment, but I watch him forcibly lighten up, as if he's trying to remove a magnet from his chest.. “Ah. Regardless, it is... very nice to meet you, April. I don't know too much about you, but I look forward to getting to know you and talk to you.”
You're going to be waiting a long time, I think to myself, but I just nod. You swallow, sitting straight up against your chair. I keep watching you, analyzing your every move, trying to find the reason behind all of them, but coming up short with a bunch of conflicting answers that I swiftly realize all boil down to my own fears reflected in you.
Absently, you turn on the cassette player, and a new voice speaks. Spoken word, very organized, a lecture much like our professors would give us, whether it be about botany, poetry, or any of the classes we share to get to our divergent destinations. As I listen to it, I piece it together just as you sigh, resigned.
“Some things never change,” you say.
David turns right, not making eye contact. “I'm sorry,” he says. “It was the last thing I was listening to.”
You just shake your head, and look out the window. I listen to the words disappear slowly as David turns the volume down. I hear the word God multiple times, and suddenly I understand, the preacher's words. “God is of utmost importance” dominates my thoughts, bouncing around in the silence, replaying them in a different light over and over. No one speaks again, leaving me to look around at the classic small town build of Goodland. It looks like a thousand different towns, but everything has a piece of you in it. I watch more crows fly over us, knowing what's best for them, and like you, knowing it's not here. I wish I wasn't scared to hold your hand right now, because I don't know who needs comfort more.
The silence starts to drive me mad, so I dig into my bag, the surroundings too dull to gather further opinion from. My hand brushes against an empty journal, periwinkle with a white lily on it. I consider it for a moment, but my mind already starts to drift toward her memories, towards the note in the beginning of the notebook, a hundred empty pages that follow it. I again wonder why I carry it around with me. I pull my jacket over it, wishing that out of sight meant out of mind, and zip the bag up. I reach for your hand for a moment, trying to think of you and forget about her, trying not to think at all, trying to make the inside of my mind as silent as everything else.
Memorial: show
I look at myself in the mirror, wondering how the world must see me, how David must. Even though it’s long since lost feeling, I still feel the graceless line on my throat. I want to untie my scarf, but even here, alone in the restroom, I can’t open Pandora’s box.
The world is quiet here; despite the small size and proximity to the living room, the radio your father’s Sunday Gospel music is playing from can’t be heard, nor can whatever conversation you make. It’s just me staring into a long mirror, the shower behind me, the world in front of me. I force a smile, adjusting my white blouse and navy blue skirt so I don’t look hopeless, use your brush to straighten my hair, wiping the cordlike black strands that stand as intruders on my flat blonde strings.
Finally, I can fear no more. I take a deep breath, I pretend that I’m beautiful, and two pairs of identical gray eyes split their gaze as I leave the room. Immediately, the noise of the world interrupts me- the gospel music hits its crescendo, I hear dishes clashing, and I vaguely hear you speak with half-interest in an amusingly familiar way only you can master as David throws himself into every word in a painfully familiar way only she could hold; God only knows why I can't stop thinking about her. I tighten my scarf, trying to drown out the memories.
“It is excellent to hear about your success,” he says as he removes a pan from the oven, humorously dressed in a black apron that dwarfs him. “I’m thrilled that you’ve found a path in what you love. It’s the only way to succeed in this world.” At once his words are graceless yet poetic, striking me from a distance.
“Yeah,” you reply, trying to pretend you don’t feel the same way as you finish setting the dishes. “It’s cool. But, you know, it’s just plants. You don’t have to care that much.” I shake my head, because I know how much you care about ‘just plants’ based off how you can detail the minutia of every petal on a daisy’s function during morning coffee, or some sort of microscopic wonder. I don’t remember the words, just the cutting enthusiasm.
He shakes his head, setting the lasagna down on the kitchen table with a thud that rattles the dishes. I politely take a seat. “Nonsense, Violet. Anything passion of yours is a passion of mine.”
“You say that,” you mumble, to the point where only I can hear you. I reach for your hand under the table and squeeze it. You’re so far away, even though this table can only seat four, and probably hasn’t in years. David sets a bottle of sparkling cider on the table. Ruefully, I am again reminded how different he is from us, and a subconscious desire for a tall glass of the blood of Christ reaches the forefront.
Regardless, I go to reach for it, but I’m cut off. “Please,” David says, kind yet firm, freezing me in place. “I would like to say grace beforehand.”
I nod, startled. You close your eyes after your father does, but your scowl is deep. I know neither of you are looking, so I watch you both, apologies to God. Your father begins prayer, for once at peace as he talks to potentially the most paramount entity in his life.
“Father God,” he says, words rolling off the tongue. “I thank you so sincerely for the food we are about to receive. I thank you for the humble life I’ve been able to maintain with your guidance. I thank you for the continued safety of my people in Goodland, and I am humbled that you’ve esteemed me with the power to protect them. I thank you so sincerely for bringing my beloved daughter Violet home safe and sound, and that you’ve helped find her a friend, a true friend, in such a large and dangerous world. I pray that your peace and your love can rest over all of us, as we take this time to reunite and learn about each other. Even though the world is a shifting, broken place, your love is eternal and keeps it together, and for that I thank you. In your name we pray, Amen.”
I find that my eyes closed partway through his prayer until he says “Let’s eat!” and you kick me under the table. His prayer still echoes in my mind in scattered bits and sentiments that disappear as words swallowed by silence. I look at you, clearly affected. You look shocked and a little betrayed that I fell under the spell of prayer so easily. There’s something poetic about having someone to care for you, and the strength to appreciate it so vocally. I shake off the spirituality with a gentle kick to your shin. You smirk, and I give a sly smile, subdued by choice, content to inhale the smell of the lasagna David is cutting.
“I hope you enjoy,” he says, slicing evenly and perfectly, each movement too precise for such a mundane task. “I’d worked on this before the bus arrived. I was concerned it might have cooled down too much.”
“It’s good,” you tell him, even though you have yet to taste it. I smile at him, nodding, and he turns to me, handing me a plate of lasagna. I don’t hesitate to take a bite, and as it turns out, your father is a decent chef. It doesn’t blow my hair back, but it’s better than any food the college cafeteria makes. I nod with a smile, and David grins in kind.
“You seem to enjoy it,” he observes, preparing your plate. “I’m glad.” I nod again, an April bobblehead at this point. I reach for the sparkling cider, pleasantly cold from the fridge, like a car window during a rainstorm. It’s a corkscrew cap, but the cider tastes the same either way- calm, nice, but not filling any needs.
David speaks again. “Violet has informed me” is all he needs to say before I immediately give you a sharp glare. Usually, when you inform people of something, it’s you trying to help others understand me far more than I wish they would, assuming I trust everyone the way I trust you. You cock your head, confused yet not surprised. David himself is unsettled to the point of silence.
“Never mind…” he says, trailing off and focusing on dinner.
“April.” One word, firm, calming, clarifying, reassuring.
I calm down, my hackles lowered, but I still swiftly mouth “What did you say?”
You quietly reply “Just enough, no more.” I sigh, and return to dinner. David pays us no mind, missing our transaction.
“I was just telling dad that you didn’t talk much,” you explain. “That you’re down sick for now, but that he didn’t have to worry about catching anything.”
David nods, buying this clumsy explanation likely solely because it came from you. “If you need any cough drops or similar products, you can find them in the restroom. Take care of yourself.” I nod so we can move on. Unlike you, he doesn’t pepper me with questions, to my relief.
You say, “Is it alright with you if I tell Papa a little about you? Just let me know if I get anything wrong?” I swallow as I consider the possibility of you telling my life story for me. Uneasily, I nod. Such is the life of an aspiring poet; if you fear letting others know your deepest secrets, you should never pick up the pen.
Thankfully, you go for the diplomatic start. “April’s from Portland. She came to Wyoming a few years ago, for a change of pace she says.”
David nods. “This is certainly a place to observe change. The fields just outside the window were green only a few weeks ago.” I nod, forcing a smile.
You continue before your father can get philosophical. “She’s going for her English degree. She wants to do poetry, so she’s been taking a lot of those type of classes.”
“Is she good?” He asks, point blank. I cannot wait to hear your answer to this.
“Papa, you have no idea,” you enthuse. “She’s really f…” You clasp your mouth, turning red. I grin, shaking with quiet laughter. You slowly correct yourself. “She’s very good.”
“Thank you,” David responds, clearly amused yet startled on a fundamental level. I return to my food, pretending I’m not there. “I must ask, Violet, how the two of you met.”
“April showers bring May flowers,” you say, and I blush, my blood pleasantly boiling. Your father smiles, but clearly doesn’t understand. You explain by not explaining. “Sorry, that was just…a thing. Uhm, we took poetry together.”
It’s the truth, but you’re nervous enough to make it sound like a lie. I nod to help matters. “I didn’t know you were into poetry,” David says, clearly inquisitive.
“It was an elective,” you insist. “I still suck at it.” David shakes his head, and I snicker, but do the same. Your poetry isn’t bad, but it always amuses me how that was your takeaway from poetry class. Besides me, of course. “But April’s really good at it,” you say. “I mean, breathtaking. It’s…”
You stop talking and focus on your dinner. You’re hot enough to turn the fork you’re holding into molten lava, but you manage to stab a piece of the lasagna and eat it.
David finishes his plate. “I wish you were feeling better, April,” he says, “because I would love to read this poetry. Perhaps after you get back you should mail me some of your work.”
I don’t respond, because I most certainly will not. You know this, but like a personal secretary, you dismissively say “I’ll be sure to remind her.” I finish my plate, but my body feels like shutting down, so I pour some more cider and drink it. I pretend it’s a fine wine and not store bought cider that probably has Kansas dust as an ingredient. You notice, resting your leg against mine. Your skin is hot enough to melt to the bone, but I survive. I try not to get lost in thought, not here, not now, not as your father watches us, waiting for one of us to slip, to give in.
He takes his plate and says “I should clean the dishes. I urge you, April, walk around, and get a feel for this place if you so desire. There’s a garden outside, although August flowers are not the same as May flowers.” Knowing the line hit, he smirks, and I can’t tell if it’s the grin of someone who knows he made a mediocre joke designed to embarrass, or if he knows something he thinks we don’t, or knows what we think he doesn’t.
He walks out of sight, but not out of mind, as he enters the kitchen. I look at you, and you sigh, mouthing an apology. I still find it odd how sometimes you lose your voice around me when you don’t need to, even as I know why. I nod slowly, my leg leaving your side, and stand up, finishing my drink and running my hand across her shoulder as I walk to the living room.
I sit on the couch. The gospel music has passed, and another sermon is on, this time over the radio. The words are backdrop in my mind. “Through Man, this is impossible, but through God, all is possible, according to…” My focus is lost in the familiar verse as I look around the living room. I notice how untouched everything is, and the decoration seems unchanged over the decades. I read scriptural platitudes straight from Salvation Army, that looks like her handwriting if written far too formally for her. Your father's badge rests on the mantelpiece amid photos of him nearly completely unchanged, you throughout a decade and a half of growth, and occasionally of a woman's unfamiliar face, one who looks closer to you than you do to David.
The sermon re-enters my ear. “At the same time, in Matthew 5:17 he says he has not come to destroy the law, but to fulfill it. One has to wonder…” The familiar verse scorches me again, and I’ve tuned it out. I relax on the couch, nearly asleep when I feel your body compress the couch next to me. My eyes creak open, and I see you smile at me, trying not to lean on me despite an instinctual gravitational pull, one I still am not sure you understand completely.
“You seriously that tired?” you ask, facing me. I shake my head, because I’m just that peaceful. There’s something about this place, this memorial of a house, that comforts me, but leaves me melancholic. It's a different kind of melancholy than the rest of Goodland. I identify with it. With loss, holding onto it, how it never really lets go, and you just take a little piece of it and go on with your life, even as that piece becomes a stone in your shoe you can’t shake out. I wonder what it’s like for you, because as I should expect, you never told me more than cursory details.
I motion to one of the pictures of the nameless woman. I know who she is, but I’ve rarely heard you talk about her. I don’t even know her name, even though you know more of my address book than my mother does. You sigh. “Yeah, I shoulda saw that coming. Uhm… that’s Lupita. She’s my mother, apparently, although…”
You stop looking at me, and I wonder what I did wrong. I reach for your hair, but you interrupt me. “Don’t worry,” you say. “It’s nothing you did.” It never is, even when it is. You continue while I bite my tongue. “I just… I barely knew her. Y’know. So sometimes I feel like something’s missing, but I’ve never felt like someone is missing. Not like…”
You stop short of saying her name, and I’m at once grateful and ashamed- grateful that you stopped short, ashamed that you correctly assessed how I’m still too scared to think of her years later. I nod my understanding, mouthing “it’s okay”, wanting to heal you. You force a smile and look away. “I think more than anything… it’s seeing Papa deal with this loss that hurts. I lost a mother, but he lost Lupita, more than I ever will.”
I take it in, and say “how long?”
You stop and think for a moment, resorting to counting on your fingers. “Twenty-four years.”
I close my eyes, shocked that it’d been that long. I try to imagine you at four years old, dealing with the loss of your mother, none of it quite sinking in, all of it dissipating before the formation of permanent memory. I look behind us, noticing David with his back turned to us, silent, washing the dishes, either listening to the sermon on the radio or to us. I imagine him doing this every night for twenty-four years. I try and imagine if I will still miss her in twenty-four years, and even as muted as some scars are, if others are forever.
I adjust my scarf, wrapping it tighter around my neck. You notice, and loosen it up before I end up asphyxiating myself. Surprised, I hold the edges of my scarf, but you take my hands and place them in my lap gently, leaving my scarf loose enough to breathe, tight enough to conceal. I take a deep breath and let it be, too exhausted to fight it. I slump over onto your shoulder, too exhausted to fight it.
“You really are tired,” you note, amused. You let me rest against you for a few minutes, and time ceases to be, and my thoughts grind to a halt, even as I feel you softly slip out from beneath me, lying me down sideways, legs on the couch. The preacher’s sermon continues, becoming a lullaby that takes me away even as words become moot background noise.
The world is quiet here; despite the small size and proximity to the living room, the radio your father’s Sunday Gospel music is playing from can’t be heard, nor can whatever conversation you make. It’s just me staring into a long mirror, the shower behind me, the world in front of me. I force a smile, adjusting my white blouse and navy blue skirt so I don’t look hopeless, use your brush to straighten my hair, wiping the cordlike black strands that stand as intruders on my flat blonde strings.
Finally, I can fear no more. I take a deep breath, I pretend that I’m beautiful, and two pairs of identical gray eyes split their gaze as I leave the room. Immediately, the noise of the world interrupts me- the gospel music hits its crescendo, I hear dishes clashing, and I vaguely hear you speak with half-interest in an amusingly familiar way only you can master as David throws himself into every word in a painfully familiar way only she could hold; God only knows why I can't stop thinking about her. I tighten my scarf, trying to drown out the memories.
“It is excellent to hear about your success,” he says as he removes a pan from the oven, humorously dressed in a black apron that dwarfs him. “I’m thrilled that you’ve found a path in what you love. It’s the only way to succeed in this world.” At once his words are graceless yet poetic, striking me from a distance.
“Yeah,” you reply, trying to pretend you don’t feel the same way as you finish setting the dishes. “It’s cool. But, you know, it’s just plants. You don’t have to care that much.” I shake my head, because I know how much you care about ‘just plants’ based off how you can detail the minutia of every petal on a daisy’s function during morning coffee, or some sort of microscopic wonder. I don’t remember the words, just the cutting enthusiasm.
He shakes his head, setting the lasagna down on the kitchen table with a thud that rattles the dishes. I politely take a seat. “Nonsense, Violet. Anything passion of yours is a passion of mine.”
“You say that,” you mumble, to the point where only I can hear you. I reach for your hand under the table and squeeze it. You’re so far away, even though this table can only seat four, and probably hasn’t in years. David sets a bottle of sparkling cider on the table. Ruefully, I am again reminded how different he is from us, and a subconscious desire for a tall glass of the blood of Christ reaches the forefront.
Regardless, I go to reach for it, but I’m cut off. “Please,” David says, kind yet firm, freezing me in place. “I would like to say grace beforehand.”
I nod, startled. You close your eyes after your father does, but your scowl is deep. I know neither of you are looking, so I watch you both, apologies to God. Your father begins prayer, for once at peace as he talks to potentially the most paramount entity in his life.
“Father God,” he says, words rolling off the tongue. “I thank you so sincerely for the food we are about to receive. I thank you for the humble life I’ve been able to maintain with your guidance. I thank you for the continued safety of my people in Goodland, and I am humbled that you’ve esteemed me with the power to protect them. I thank you so sincerely for bringing my beloved daughter Violet home safe and sound, and that you’ve helped find her a friend, a true friend, in such a large and dangerous world. I pray that your peace and your love can rest over all of us, as we take this time to reunite and learn about each other. Even though the world is a shifting, broken place, your love is eternal and keeps it together, and for that I thank you. In your name we pray, Amen.”
I find that my eyes closed partway through his prayer until he says “Let’s eat!” and you kick me under the table. His prayer still echoes in my mind in scattered bits and sentiments that disappear as words swallowed by silence. I look at you, clearly affected. You look shocked and a little betrayed that I fell under the spell of prayer so easily. There’s something poetic about having someone to care for you, and the strength to appreciate it so vocally. I shake off the spirituality with a gentle kick to your shin. You smirk, and I give a sly smile, subdued by choice, content to inhale the smell of the lasagna David is cutting.
“I hope you enjoy,” he says, slicing evenly and perfectly, each movement too precise for such a mundane task. “I’d worked on this before the bus arrived. I was concerned it might have cooled down too much.”
“It’s good,” you tell him, even though you have yet to taste it. I smile at him, nodding, and he turns to me, handing me a plate of lasagna. I don’t hesitate to take a bite, and as it turns out, your father is a decent chef. It doesn’t blow my hair back, but it’s better than any food the college cafeteria makes. I nod with a smile, and David grins in kind.
“You seem to enjoy it,” he observes, preparing your plate. “I’m glad.” I nod again, an April bobblehead at this point. I reach for the sparkling cider, pleasantly cold from the fridge, like a car window during a rainstorm. It’s a corkscrew cap, but the cider tastes the same either way- calm, nice, but not filling any needs.
David speaks again. “Violet has informed me” is all he needs to say before I immediately give you a sharp glare. Usually, when you inform people of something, it’s you trying to help others understand me far more than I wish they would, assuming I trust everyone the way I trust you. You cock your head, confused yet not surprised. David himself is unsettled to the point of silence.
“Never mind…” he says, trailing off and focusing on dinner.
“April.” One word, firm, calming, clarifying, reassuring.
I calm down, my hackles lowered, but I still swiftly mouth “What did you say?”
You quietly reply “Just enough, no more.” I sigh, and return to dinner. David pays us no mind, missing our transaction.
“I was just telling dad that you didn’t talk much,” you explain. “That you’re down sick for now, but that he didn’t have to worry about catching anything.”
David nods, buying this clumsy explanation likely solely because it came from you. “If you need any cough drops or similar products, you can find them in the restroom. Take care of yourself.” I nod so we can move on. Unlike you, he doesn’t pepper me with questions, to my relief.
You say, “Is it alright with you if I tell Papa a little about you? Just let me know if I get anything wrong?” I swallow as I consider the possibility of you telling my life story for me. Uneasily, I nod. Such is the life of an aspiring poet; if you fear letting others know your deepest secrets, you should never pick up the pen.
Thankfully, you go for the diplomatic start. “April’s from Portland. She came to Wyoming a few years ago, for a change of pace she says.”
David nods. “This is certainly a place to observe change. The fields just outside the window were green only a few weeks ago.” I nod, forcing a smile.
You continue before your father can get philosophical. “She’s going for her English degree. She wants to do poetry, so she’s been taking a lot of those type of classes.”
“Is she good?” He asks, point blank. I cannot wait to hear your answer to this.
“Papa, you have no idea,” you enthuse. “She’s really f…” You clasp your mouth, turning red. I grin, shaking with quiet laughter. You slowly correct yourself. “She’s very good.”
“Thank you,” David responds, clearly amused yet startled on a fundamental level. I return to my food, pretending I’m not there. “I must ask, Violet, how the two of you met.”
“April showers bring May flowers,” you say, and I blush, my blood pleasantly boiling. Your father smiles, but clearly doesn’t understand. You explain by not explaining. “Sorry, that was just…a thing. Uhm, we took poetry together.”
It’s the truth, but you’re nervous enough to make it sound like a lie. I nod to help matters. “I didn’t know you were into poetry,” David says, clearly inquisitive.
“It was an elective,” you insist. “I still suck at it.” David shakes his head, and I snicker, but do the same. Your poetry isn’t bad, but it always amuses me how that was your takeaway from poetry class. Besides me, of course. “But April’s really good at it,” you say. “I mean, breathtaking. It’s…”
You stop talking and focus on your dinner. You’re hot enough to turn the fork you’re holding into molten lava, but you manage to stab a piece of the lasagna and eat it.
David finishes his plate. “I wish you were feeling better, April,” he says, “because I would love to read this poetry. Perhaps after you get back you should mail me some of your work.”
I don’t respond, because I most certainly will not. You know this, but like a personal secretary, you dismissively say “I’ll be sure to remind her.” I finish my plate, but my body feels like shutting down, so I pour some more cider and drink it. I pretend it’s a fine wine and not store bought cider that probably has Kansas dust as an ingredient. You notice, resting your leg against mine. Your skin is hot enough to melt to the bone, but I survive. I try not to get lost in thought, not here, not now, not as your father watches us, waiting for one of us to slip, to give in.
He takes his plate and says “I should clean the dishes. I urge you, April, walk around, and get a feel for this place if you so desire. There’s a garden outside, although August flowers are not the same as May flowers.” Knowing the line hit, he smirks, and I can’t tell if it’s the grin of someone who knows he made a mediocre joke designed to embarrass, or if he knows something he thinks we don’t, or knows what we think he doesn’t.
He walks out of sight, but not out of mind, as he enters the kitchen. I look at you, and you sigh, mouthing an apology. I still find it odd how sometimes you lose your voice around me when you don’t need to, even as I know why. I nod slowly, my leg leaving your side, and stand up, finishing my drink and running my hand across her shoulder as I walk to the living room.
I sit on the couch. The gospel music has passed, and another sermon is on, this time over the radio. The words are backdrop in my mind. “Through Man, this is impossible, but through God, all is possible, according to…” My focus is lost in the familiar verse as I look around the living room. I notice how untouched everything is, and the decoration seems unchanged over the decades. I read scriptural platitudes straight from Salvation Army, that looks like her handwriting if written far too formally for her. Your father's badge rests on the mantelpiece amid photos of him nearly completely unchanged, you throughout a decade and a half of growth, and occasionally of a woman's unfamiliar face, one who looks closer to you than you do to David.
The sermon re-enters my ear. “At the same time, in Matthew 5:17 he says he has not come to destroy the law, but to fulfill it. One has to wonder…” The familiar verse scorches me again, and I’ve tuned it out. I relax on the couch, nearly asleep when I feel your body compress the couch next to me. My eyes creak open, and I see you smile at me, trying not to lean on me despite an instinctual gravitational pull, one I still am not sure you understand completely.
“You seriously that tired?” you ask, facing me. I shake my head, because I’m just that peaceful. There’s something about this place, this memorial of a house, that comforts me, but leaves me melancholic. It's a different kind of melancholy than the rest of Goodland. I identify with it. With loss, holding onto it, how it never really lets go, and you just take a little piece of it and go on with your life, even as that piece becomes a stone in your shoe you can’t shake out. I wonder what it’s like for you, because as I should expect, you never told me more than cursory details.
I motion to one of the pictures of the nameless woman. I know who she is, but I’ve rarely heard you talk about her. I don’t even know her name, even though you know more of my address book than my mother does. You sigh. “Yeah, I shoulda saw that coming. Uhm… that’s Lupita. She’s my mother, apparently, although…”
You stop looking at me, and I wonder what I did wrong. I reach for your hair, but you interrupt me. “Don’t worry,” you say. “It’s nothing you did.” It never is, even when it is. You continue while I bite my tongue. “I just… I barely knew her. Y’know. So sometimes I feel like something’s missing, but I’ve never felt like someone is missing. Not like…”
You stop short of saying her name, and I’m at once grateful and ashamed- grateful that you stopped short, ashamed that you correctly assessed how I’m still too scared to think of her years later. I nod my understanding, mouthing “it’s okay”, wanting to heal you. You force a smile and look away. “I think more than anything… it’s seeing Papa deal with this loss that hurts. I lost a mother, but he lost Lupita, more than I ever will.”
I take it in, and say “how long?”
You stop and think for a moment, resorting to counting on your fingers. “Twenty-four years.”
I close my eyes, shocked that it’d been that long. I try to imagine you at four years old, dealing with the loss of your mother, none of it quite sinking in, all of it dissipating before the formation of permanent memory. I look behind us, noticing David with his back turned to us, silent, washing the dishes, either listening to the sermon on the radio or to us. I imagine him doing this every night for twenty-four years. I try and imagine if I will still miss her in twenty-four years, and even as muted as some scars are, if others are forever.
I adjust my scarf, wrapping it tighter around my neck. You notice, and loosen it up before I end up asphyxiating myself. Surprised, I hold the edges of my scarf, but you take my hands and place them in my lap gently, leaving my scarf loose enough to breathe, tight enough to conceal. I take a deep breath and let it be, too exhausted to fight it. I slump over onto your shoulder, too exhausted to fight it.
“You really are tired,” you note, amused. You let me rest against you for a few minutes, and time ceases to be, and my thoughts grind to a halt, even as I feel you softly slip out from beneath me, lying me down sideways, legs on the couch. The preacher’s sermon continues, becoming a lullaby that takes me away even as words become moot background noise.
Dying Whisper: show
My dreams are deep, intimate, yet intangible, an experience completely incomparable to their memory. I don’t wake up screaming, but I'm so deeply unsettled, in no small part due to the fact that it’s now pitch black here and I can’t imagine how it went from 7:30pm to, if the LED clock is right, 3:30am. It’s my full eight hours of sleep, just completely off kilter.
I sit up, trying to construct a post-mortem dream narrative, blanket and knees pulled to my chest. I remember visuals, none of them clear or pleasant. A feeling of being lost. A blank sky; no stars, no color, just clear. I remember screaming, and I’m not sure if it was my own voice; it’s been years since I’ve heard it. I remember a flock of crows, much more graceful and inviting than the ones at the bus stop, swooping down low enough to try and carry me, never reaching me. I remember gunshots racing after me in their stead, and when one pierces my leg, I wake.
I look around, reassessing my surroundings, seeing a picture of Christ near the clock. I perform the sign of the cross over myself, just for good luck. I lie back down, trying to regain enough peace to sleep, but in the back of my mind I wonder if there are as many memorials of Christ as there are of Lupita, and I wonder how David views you when it's clear that Father God became your unwanted stepfather throughout most of your life.
My attempts to fall asleep again fall flat, and watching the minutes tick by on the clock leaves me more bored than hypnotized, so I find my shoes and put them on. I look for my bag, finding it set just underneath the arm of the couch, the benefactor obvious. I smile until I realize that I haven't taken my medications. Sighing, I dig around until I find them, taking two small, damning pills, hoping their effect won't be too late; this is not a place to lose my grip. I look for my jacket and a pair of pants. In the dark of the night, I change, and fold the blanket onto the couch, trying to leave this place as I entered it, if such a thing is even possible.
I find the back door and walk into the garden. The stars in the open country sky light my path, so endless that it draws my attention more than the garden. Even then, looking around, I’m entranced. Just like the inside of the house, the precision of every flower, every vegetable, every bush, every vine on every plant is remarkable. It's like it never changes, never dies, never succumbs to winter like the crows. I wonder how much of this you set up, how integral this was in your decision to study botany. It’s a shame how I learn the most about you when I find out on my own rather than you telling me.
My trance is interrupted by a flashlight shining on the flower. I nearly leap out of my skin, already preparing indecipherable apologies, until I hear your voice. “Chill out,” you say as I follow the light source. “I’m right here.” I sigh, relieved, following the light like a moth to the flame. You're on the bench near an empty plot, flashlight targeting me. I admire you, adorned head to toe in a thick black trenchcoat and shin-high boots, black bangs nearly hiding your eyes. I sit next to you, scarf draping over your shoulder like a loose bandage. You reach for it, but I hold my hand up, removing it before you can adjust it. You shrug, moving the flashlight between our faces.
“You can't sleep either?” You mouth, lips active beneath the light.
“Speak normally,” I remind you, because you have a voice.
“♥♥♥♥,” you hiss, looking away. “But yeah, whatever. You can't sleep either?”
I shake my head, taking the flashlight under my chin and replying, “Slept too much.”
You smile. “I'll say. You were out at seven thirty. But after this ride I don't blame you.” Your smile dissipates. “Just envy you.”
I don't respond immediately, just placing one hand in yours and holding the flashlight to the other. I turn the conversation to you. “I didn't expect your dad to be...”
“Such a holy roller?” you reply, spitting the words out. “Yeah, I figured you wouldn't take long to get that. Was hoping he'd cut that ♥♥♥♥ out.”
“I don't mind it,” I admit.
“You don't have to live with it,” you point out.
I amend my statement. “I don’t mind some parts of it.”
You shake your head. “Well, that's why you're the good twin,” you joke, and I crack a smile. “And I'm the twin who's going to hell.”
Thankfully, you're still laughing, so I grin and reassure you “There's a list of reasons why I'll be joining you there.”
“And I'm one of them,” you reply sing-song, simmered to a smirk like the evil twin. I smile sweetly like the good twin.
“Yeah, I like some of the ideas of Christianity. I mean...” I notice you aren't looking at me, and words of Jesus being my first literary crush disappear on my tongue. You've got another thousand yard stare, blue eyes cold enough to freeze the stars. I place my hand on your back, crow-black hair weaving itself through my fingers, binding me further to you. I shine the flashlight in your face ever so slowly, leading you back to me as I try and fix you.
“Does he know?” I ask.
“About which?” you reply too quickly to sell that you weren't already thinking about it.
“Either-or,” I reply, quickly amending to “both.”
You nod. “Yes, and yes. Why do you think he spends so much time watching us?”
I sigh, my sympathy for David going nearly as high as my cynicism. “How did he react?”
“Jesus, April,” you reply. “How do you think? I mean, the first bombshell... he saw that coming. And he tried to react with grace, but I could tell. He can't hide ♥♥♥♥ from me.” Your cathartic swearing is relieving to me, just to know you're letting go, that you can trust me. “The second one... no one saw that coming. And I had to call him. The police and the hospital required it, because I didn't have anyone else. And I still don't think he knows how to take it. But every time around I'm around him, he just can't take his eyes off of me. Like I'll disappear.”
“I didn't notice him watching us,” I admit. I realize you're worked up past the limit, so I settle you down with a gentle run through your hair. “You have someone now.”
“I know,” you say, leaning under my hand like a kitten desperate for affection. “And so do you.”
“I knew that,” I insist. This isn't about me, in fact this is me checking up on you. I let you stop talking for a minute, content with the cadence of silence because I know I'm not alone.
“The garden is nice,” you say. “It's been in the family as long as we've lived here. It's why I'm into plants and all. It was just something that... every year, no matter what, we had a garden.”
I close my eyes, imagining decades of one garden growing the same every year, yielding different crops, and a different Violet entering every year, while I can't imagine David changing in the slightest, born an old soul, never changing, never growing. Every plant needs something to grow; David's nourishment was the Word of God, yours was change, understanding, natural rebellion. Mine was finding a voice. The question is, have we grown?
“It's nice,” I say, not sure what else to say. You nod, and I feel you inch closer to me, every second a millimeter, every movement hesitant yet precise. I feel your movement, how you join with me like two wayward puzzle pieces. It’s tantalizingly close, but not quite, just like everything about what we are.
To my surprise, you say “You know what you'd like? We should walk through the fields. I mean, it ain't much, but it's nice, open, and you can see all the stars through there.” Speaking straight to my heart, I stand up before you finish, because I know poetry when I live it. You laugh and meet me. “Glad to see you're down,” you say, adjusting your trenchcoat. “Let's do this.”
The garden is in the distance in no time, the gate left open as we leave to the neighboring fields, all empty. It's so unusual to me to be walking at night without music, such is my aversion to lonely silence, but your steady breathing and the crush of nature beneath us acts as an ambient soundtrack to rival any other, going beautifully imperfectly to my erratic heartbeat. You guide me through fields that still have no grace or color to speak of, but somehow, the stars give them new life, and I wonder if I can appreciate them for what they were, not what I wish they could be.
We blaze a trail straight through to a tree that seems miles away, yet enticingly closer with every step. Neither of us speak, but our quickened step communicates everything. As we get there, you shine the flashlight forward, as if looking for something. I try to look as well, but unsure what for until you start walking faster, laughing, pulling me forward. I tug back, confused, yet strangely exhilarated. You can’t see me, so I can’t speak, leaving me no choice but to hold on. Finally, we get there, and I see something. You shine the flashlight on a hammock between two distant parts of the tree, stretched out to near perfection, if not hammered with visible foliage.
“He left it,” you whisper, and even without the aid of light I know you’re smiling, so I smile too. We clear the distance to the hammock, and after you hand me the flashlight I watch you overturn it and shake every last leaf out of it, scanning you like a spotlight, watching you work on it, trying to take in every facet of your appearance, as if it’s the last time I’ll be able to see. The things you are and the things I have can disappear so quickly.
Finally, it’s clear, and I pretend I haven’t been admiring you by returning the flashlight’s gaze to the hammock. There's a strange, sultry look you're sporting that turns blue eyes purple, and it makes my heart nearly leap out of my ears. It’s everything I think I want, but still makes me uneasy. Nerves, probably.
“We’re a mile away from the house,” you tell me, and indeed, I can barely see it even when I throw the flashlight at it. “There’s no need to pretend now.”
With that, you nearly throw yourself into the hammock, and I fear that it’ll fall and take you with it. Thankfully, it holds, and I know I won't shake things, so I sit with you. Before I can wrap my arm around you, you pull me to your chest. I let you, the gravitational pull strange this time.
“It’s nice out,” I say to no one, because I’m still holding the flashlight. I’m not sure if I want to say anything. You notice and take it from my hands, turning it off for now.
“Just let me know if you want to say anything.” Suddenly, I do, not knowing what I had until it was gone. I don’t know how to phrase it. I just wish I had the flashlight back, so I can make the choice myself.
It’s a few seconds before the first kiss on top of my head. Any of the affection you carry is consumed by the cancerous gnaw at the bottom of my stomach. Every time I feel like something more than your friend, you touch me in a way that makes me feel less like your equal and more like a chihuahua in your bag, a pet to show off, an object of affection and distance. In my head, as you rest your lips on it, I try and figure you out, with what I know, both obvious and implied, that keeps you from realizing that how I want you is getting in the way of the fact that I want you. Sometimes words are not enough.
I reach for your arm and squeeze it. Something seems to go through, because you stop. “Sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t… I was just…” You sigh quietly, tension in your body compressing like a jammed spring. I try not to dig into you, but I adjust myself so I can figure out what I want.
I turn to face you, resting on top of you still. I don’t know if you can see me, but I say “better.” I’m not sure how much better, but for once, I have power. I return your kiss, barely reaching your neck, trying to measure every movement, fearing the simplest wrong touch will be a trigger. I'm gentle and cautious, trying to assuage your fear, but when I notice you stiffen, I realize that I’ve read you wrong, and the power fades. I push off of you and sit up. You pull yourself from underneath me, kicking my thigh in the process. You swear upon realizing it, but you’ve barely hurt me, not as badly as I seem to have hurt you.
You sit next to me, and we’re friends once again, the threshold fled. “Please don’t…” you gasp, sounding like me trying to speak. “Just not like that. You nerve me out when you do that.”
“Sorry,” I reply.
“No, it’s okay,” you say too quickly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I try to understand, but the more I hear it, the more the words burn me. Every effort I take to make you comfortable with me is met with you making me someone I pray to God I no longer am: fragile, delicate, to be handled lightly.
When I hurt you, you’re too scared to say it, as if the simplest disapproval will break me. When something passionate overtakes me, you act like what I want is adorable. When you retreat, we both know why, but you act like I'm too simple to know better when I'm a damn fool for you. Damn the right words, the right actions, the right attitude, you’ve left me at a fever pitch but you fail to see me as anything more than an egg needing to be incubated. I’ve made a lot of horrible choices that have left me weak but only in the highest of crises, not with every errant wind.
I grab the flashlight before you notice it’s gone and say “Please don’t kiss me like a child.” It’s a demand accented by strong, arched eyes, pointing straight at you, accusing you, demanding something more.
“Sorry,” you insist, turning away. “I was just trying to be careful.”
I turn you towards me. “Don’t,” I say into the flashlight. “Trust that I can handle things.”
“I said I’m sorry,” you groan. “Okay? Sorry that I didn’t do whatever it is you wanted.”
I would shut the flashlight if I knew you meant it, but I know you don’t. “All I want is for you to trust me,” I repeat.
“You don’t think I’d tell you half the ♥♥♥♥ I do if I didn’t trust you?” you pry. “I let you know more than anyone else will ever know about me. What the hell do you even mean?”
“Trust me to be stronger,” I insist, words pouring out of me. “I can help you. I can move with you. Just stop acting like I can’t. I’m not who I used to be.”
You blink, as if I’m speaking gibberish. “I… do not know what planet you’re on.” With that, you turn away, resting against the hammock, leaving me mute once more. I shine the light on you, but you say “Just let it go. We could be fine. Just stop talking.”
That does it. I throw the flashlight on the ground, insulted beyond belief. You shoot up, clearly not knowing what planet you’re on. I stare you down, even though I know you couldn’t find my eyes in the shadow of the night. A flurry of words rain bullets through my mind but even if I had the flashlight in hand and your complete attention, I'd still have nothing to say.
I leave the flashlight be and start to walk away.
“Really?” you shout after me. “This is how you’re going to handle this. Go ahead, April!” I hear your footsteps retreat shortly to the hammock. “I was just trying to show you a nice evening. Just trying to make you happy. Whatever. You're such a child.”
All I can do as I clear distance between your voice and my silence is scream that you’re doing it all wrong, but it just comes out as taking the wind out of my own pipes and doing nothing with them, proving to the world I can stumble back home. Even though the wheat scrapes against my legs and makes my jacket filthy, I do, still feeling self-defeated. A single crow flies above me, a messenger of the murder still trying to take me with them, while all I can do is run, swearing that I’m okay, that I’ll never fly again, loathing the crow for its sympathy.
I pass through the garden, leaving the gate open. I’m inside the house quicker than that. I wonder if David’s awake, if he’s looking for us, if he knows. I don’t want to risk him seeing me, so I clamber into the bathroom, facing myself in the mirror, too scared to turn the lights on, too scared to see if I can see what everyone else sees me as. Fragile, delicate, helpless, too much of a coward to face her own weaknesses, her own shame, her own past. Fleeing every time adversity hit, chased by more ghosts than Pac-Man, still missing her in a deep crevasse of my heart that craves the day where I didn’t perpetually earn the pity of every pair of eyes I meet.
I stand in darkness for ten more minutes before I leave, walking out into an empty room and tucking myself under the blanket, kicking my shoes off, taking my jacket off, reaching into my bag and popping a Dramamine, my hand again brushing against the notebook, making me crave someone like her who could talk to me how I wish you did. I hear the door open softly again, but pretend to be asleep as your footsteps find my body. You sit at the foot of the couch, next to my feet, breath repeatedly catching as if you mean to say something, but I can’t help you right now. I’ve tried and I’ve failed. Say what you need to say.
She would, and that’s what I miss the most about her.
I wait in silence for you to speak, and fall asleep before you ever do.
I sit up, trying to construct a post-mortem dream narrative, blanket and knees pulled to my chest. I remember visuals, none of them clear or pleasant. A feeling of being lost. A blank sky; no stars, no color, just clear. I remember screaming, and I’m not sure if it was my own voice; it’s been years since I’ve heard it. I remember a flock of crows, much more graceful and inviting than the ones at the bus stop, swooping down low enough to try and carry me, never reaching me. I remember gunshots racing after me in their stead, and when one pierces my leg, I wake.
I look around, reassessing my surroundings, seeing a picture of Christ near the clock. I perform the sign of the cross over myself, just for good luck. I lie back down, trying to regain enough peace to sleep, but in the back of my mind I wonder if there are as many memorials of Christ as there are of Lupita, and I wonder how David views you when it's clear that Father God became your unwanted stepfather throughout most of your life.
My attempts to fall asleep again fall flat, and watching the minutes tick by on the clock leaves me more bored than hypnotized, so I find my shoes and put them on. I look for my bag, finding it set just underneath the arm of the couch, the benefactor obvious. I smile until I realize that I haven't taken my medications. Sighing, I dig around until I find them, taking two small, damning pills, hoping their effect won't be too late; this is not a place to lose my grip. I look for my jacket and a pair of pants. In the dark of the night, I change, and fold the blanket onto the couch, trying to leave this place as I entered it, if such a thing is even possible.
I find the back door and walk into the garden. The stars in the open country sky light my path, so endless that it draws my attention more than the garden. Even then, looking around, I’m entranced. Just like the inside of the house, the precision of every flower, every vegetable, every bush, every vine on every plant is remarkable. It's like it never changes, never dies, never succumbs to winter like the crows. I wonder how much of this you set up, how integral this was in your decision to study botany. It’s a shame how I learn the most about you when I find out on my own rather than you telling me.
My trance is interrupted by a flashlight shining on the flower. I nearly leap out of my skin, already preparing indecipherable apologies, until I hear your voice. “Chill out,” you say as I follow the light source. “I’m right here.” I sigh, relieved, following the light like a moth to the flame. You're on the bench near an empty plot, flashlight targeting me. I admire you, adorned head to toe in a thick black trenchcoat and shin-high boots, black bangs nearly hiding your eyes. I sit next to you, scarf draping over your shoulder like a loose bandage. You reach for it, but I hold my hand up, removing it before you can adjust it. You shrug, moving the flashlight between our faces.
“You can't sleep either?” You mouth, lips active beneath the light.
“Speak normally,” I remind you, because you have a voice.
“♥♥♥♥,” you hiss, looking away. “But yeah, whatever. You can't sleep either?”
I shake my head, taking the flashlight under my chin and replying, “Slept too much.”
You smile. “I'll say. You were out at seven thirty. But after this ride I don't blame you.” Your smile dissipates. “Just envy you.”
I don't respond immediately, just placing one hand in yours and holding the flashlight to the other. I turn the conversation to you. “I didn't expect your dad to be...”
“Such a holy roller?” you reply, spitting the words out. “Yeah, I figured you wouldn't take long to get that. Was hoping he'd cut that ♥♥♥♥ out.”
“I don't mind it,” I admit.
“You don't have to live with it,” you point out.
I amend my statement. “I don’t mind some parts of it.”
You shake your head. “Well, that's why you're the good twin,” you joke, and I crack a smile. “And I'm the twin who's going to hell.”
Thankfully, you're still laughing, so I grin and reassure you “There's a list of reasons why I'll be joining you there.”
“And I'm one of them,” you reply sing-song, simmered to a smirk like the evil twin. I smile sweetly like the good twin.
“Yeah, I like some of the ideas of Christianity. I mean...” I notice you aren't looking at me, and words of Jesus being my first literary crush disappear on my tongue. You've got another thousand yard stare, blue eyes cold enough to freeze the stars. I place my hand on your back, crow-black hair weaving itself through my fingers, binding me further to you. I shine the flashlight in your face ever so slowly, leading you back to me as I try and fix you.
“Does he know?” I ask.
“About which?” you reply too quickly to sell that you weren't already thinking about it.
“Either-or,” I reply, quickly amending to “both.”
You nod. “Yes, and yes. Why do you think he spends so much time watching us?”
I sigh, my sympathy for David going nearly as high as my cynicism. “How did he react?”
“Jesus, April,” you reply. “How do you think? I mean, the first bombshell... he saw that coming. And he tried to react with grace, but I could tell. He can't hide ♥♥♥♥ from me.” Your cathartic swearing is relieving to me, just to know you're letting go, that you can trust me. “The second one... no one saw that coming. And I had to call him. The police and the hospital required it, because I didn't have anyone else. And I still don't think he knows how to take it. But every time around I'm around him, he just can't take his eyes off of me. Like I'll disappear.”
“I didn't notice him watching us,” I admit. I realize you're worked up past the limit, so I settle you down with a gentle run through your hair. “You have someone now.”
“I know,” you say, leaning under my hand like a kitten desperate for affection. “And so do you.”
“I knew that,” I insist. This isn't about me, in fact this is me checking up on you. I let you stop talking for a minute, content with the cadence of silence because I know I'm not alone.
“The garden is nice,” you say. “It's been in the family as long as we've lived here. It's why I'm into plants and all. It was just something that... every year, no matter what, we had a garden.”
I close my eyes, imagining decades of one garden growing the same every year, yielding different crops, and a different Violet entering every year, while I can't imagine David changing in the slightest, born an old soul, never changing, never growing. Every plant needs something to grow; David's nourishment was the Word of God, yours was change, understanding, natural rebellion. Mine was finding a voice. The question is, have we grown?
“It's nice,” I say, not sure what else to say. You nod, and I feel you inch closer to me, every second a millimeter, every movement hesitant yet precise. I feel your movement, how you join with me like two wayward puzzle pieces. It’s tantalizingly close, but not quite, just like everything about what we are.
To my surprise, you say “You know what you'd like? We should walk through the fields. I mean, it ain't much, but it's nice, open, and you can see all the stars through there.” Speaking straight to my heart, I stand up before you finish, because I know poetry when I live it. You laugh and meet me. “Glad to see you're down,” you say, adjusting your trenchcoat. “Let's do this.”
The garden is in the distance in no time, the gate left open as we leave to the neighboring fields, all empty. It's so unusual to me to be walking at night without music, such is my aversion to lonely silence, but your steady breathing and the crush of nature beneath us acts as an ambient soundtrack to rival any other, going beautifully imperfectly to my erratic heartbeat. You guide me through fields that still have no grace or color to speak of, but somehow, the stars give them new life, and I wonder if I can appreciate them for what they were, not what I wish they could be.
We blaze a trail straight through to a tree that seems miles away, yet enticingly closer with every step. Neither of us speak, but our quickened step communicates everything. As we get there, you shine the flashlight forward, as if looking for something. I try to look as well, but unsure what for until you start walking faster, laughing, pulling me forward. I tug back, confused, yet strangely exhilarated. You can’t see me, so I can’t speak, leaving me no choice but to hold on. Finally, we get there, and I see something. You shine the flashlight on a hammock between two distant parts of the tree, stretched out to near perfection, if not hammered with visible foliage.
“He left it,” you whisper, and even without the aid of light I know you’re smiling, so I smile too. We clear the distance to the hammock, and after you hand me the flashlight I watch you overturn it and shake every last leaf out of it, scanning you like a spotlight, watching you work on it, trying to take in every facet of your appearance, as if it’s the last time I’ll be able to see. The things you are and the things I have can disappear so quickly.
Finally, it’s clear, and I pretend I haven’t been admiring you by returning the flashlight’s gaze to the hammock. There's a strange, sultry look you're sporting that turns blue eyes purple, and it makes my heart nearly leap out of my ears. It’s everything I think I want, but still makes me uneasy. Nerves, probably.
“We’re a mile away from the house,” you tell me, and indeed, I can barely see it even when I throw the flashlight at it. “There’s no need to pretend now.”
With that, you nearly throw yourself into the hammock, and I fear that it’ll fall and take you with it. Thankfully, it holds, and I know I won't shake things, so I sit with you. Before I can wrap my arm around you, you pull me to your chest. I let you, the gravitational pull strange this time.
“It’s nice out,” I say to no one, because I’m still holding the flashlight. I’m not sure if I want to say anything. You notice and take it from my hands, turning it off for now.
“Just let me know if you want to say anything.” Suddenly, I do, not knowing what I had until it was gone. I don’t know how to phrase it. I just wish I had the flashlight back, so I can make the choice myself.
It’s a few seconds before the first kiss on top of my head. Any of the affection you carry is consumed by the cancerous gnaw at the bottom of my stomach. Every time I feel like something more than your friend, you touch me in a way that makes me feel less like your equal and more like a chihuahua in your bag, a pet to show off, an object of affection and distance. In my head, as you rest your lips on it, I try and figure you out, with what I know, both obvious and implied, that keeps you from realizing that how I want you is getting in the way of the fact that I want you. Sometimes words are not enough.
I reach for your arm and squeeze it. Something seems to go through, because you stop. “Sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t… I was just…” You sigh quietly, tension in your body compressing like a jammed spring. I try not to dig into you, but I adjust myself so I can figure out what I want.
I turn to face you, resting on top of you still. I don’t know if you can see me, but I say “better.” I’m not sure how much better, but for once, I have power. I return your kiss, barely reaching your neck, trying to measure every movement, fearing the simplest wrong touch will be a trigger. I'm gentle and cautious, trying to assuage your fear, but when I notice you stiffen, I realize that I’ve read you wrong, and the power fades. I push off of you and sit up. You pull yourself from underneath me, kicking my thigh in the process. You swear upon realizing it, but you’ve barely hurt me, not as badly as I seem to have hurt you.
You sit next to me, and we’re friends once again, the threshold fled. “Please don’t…” you gasp, sounding like me trying to speak. “Just not like that. You nerve me out when you do that.”
“Sorry,” I reply.
“No, it’s okay,” you say too quickly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I try to understand, but the more I hear it, the more the words burn me. Every effort I take to make you comfortable with me is met with you making me someone I pray to God I no longer am: fragile, delicate, to be handled lightly.
When I hurt you, you’re too scared to say it, as if the simplest disapproval will break me. When something passionate overtakes me, you act like what I want is adorable. When you retreat, we both know why, but you act like I'm too simple to know better when I'm a damn fool for you. Damn the right words, the right actions, the right attitude, you’ve left me at a fever pitch but you fail to see me as anything more than an egg needing to be incubated. I’ve made a lot of horrible choices that have left me weak but only in the highest of crises, not with every errant wind.
I grab the flashlight before you notice it’s gone and say “Please don’t kiss me like a child.” It’s a demand accented by strong, arched eyes, pointing straight at you, accusing you, demanding something more.
“Sorry,” you insist, turning away. “I was just trying to be careful.”
I turn you towards me. “Don’t,” I say into the flashlight. “Trust that I can handle things.”
“I said I’m sorry,” you groan. “Okay? Sorry that I didn’t do whatever it is you wanted.”
I would shut the flashlight if I knew you meant it, but I know you don’t. “All I want is for you to trust me,” I repeat.
“You don’t think I’d tell you half the ♥♥♥♥ I do if I didn’t trust you?” you pry. “I let you know more than anyone else will ever know about me. What the hell do you even mean?”
“Trust me to be stronger,” I insist, words pouring out of me. “I can help you. I can move with you. Just stop acting like I can’t. I’m not who I used to be.”
You blink, as if I’m speaking gibberish. “I… do not know what planet you’re on.” With that, you turn away, resting against the hammock, leaving me mute once more. I shine the light on you, but you say “Just let it go. We could be fine. Just stop talking.”
That does it. I throw the flashlight on the ground, insulted beyond belief. You shoot up, clearly not knowing what planet you’re on. I stare you down, even though I know you couldn’t find my eyes in the shadow of the night. A flurry of words rain bullets through my mind but even if I had the flashlight in hand and your complete attention, I'd still have nothing to say.
I leave the flashlight be and start to walk away.
“Really?” you shout after me. “This is how you’re going to handle this. Go ahead, April!” I hear your footsteps retreat shortly to the hammock. “I was just trying to show you a nice evening. Just trying to make you happy. Whatever. You're such a child.”
All I can do as I clear distance between your voice and my silence is scream that you’re doing it all wrong, but it just comes out as taking the wind out of my own pipes and doing nothing with them, proving to the world I can stumble back home. Even though the wheat scrapes against my legs and makes my jacket filthy, I do, still feeling self-defeated. A single crow flies above me, a messenger of the murder still trying to take me with them, while all I can do is run, swearing that I’m okay, that I’ll never fly again, loathing the crow for its sympathy.
I pass through the garden, leaving the gate open. I’m inside the house quicker than that. I wonder if David’s awake, if he’s looking for us, if he knows. I don’t want to risk him seeing me, so I clamber into the bathroom, facing myself in the mirror, too scared to turn the lights on, too scared to see if I can see what everyone else sees me as. Fragile, delicate, helpless, too much of a coward to face her own weaknesses, her own shame, her own past. Fleeing every time adversity hit, chased by more ghosts than Pac-Man, still missing her in a deep crevasse of my heart that craves the day where I didn’t perpetually earn the pity of every pair of eyes I meet.
I stand in darkness for ten more minutes before I leave, walking out into an empty room and tucking myself under the blanket, kicking my shoes off, taking my jacket off, reaching into my bag and popping a Dramamine, my hand again brushing against the notebook, making me crave someone like her who could talk to me how I wish you did. I hear the door open softly again, but pretend to be asleep as your footsteps find my body. You sit at the foot of the couch, next to my feet, breath repeatedly catching as if you mean to say something, but I can’t help you right now. I’ve tried and I’ve failed. Say what you need to say.
She would, and that’s what I miss the most about her.
I wait in silence for you to speak, and fall asleep before you ever do.
Fresh Pages: show
I wake alone on the couch to the sound of the kettle whistling. Sunlight weaves through the window straight to my eyes. I smell a slightly burned breakfast that has at least three forms of meat in it. For the first time, I notice a fire in the fireplace, having fallen asleep before it was lit and waking up after it burnt out. The heat kisses my skin, calming my heart. I stretch, taking a deep breath and nearly losing it. The sound of silence has so much going on, as if I’m here with hundreds of spirits.
I realize the Dramamine is still on the table, and I go to put it away. In my bag, I hit my notebook, still unused. The written word has always been my favorite form of communication, even before it was my chief form, yet this notebook has remained empty for years. I intended to fill it page to page, honor every line with words that lived up to the person who gave it to me. Instead, it lies in the bottom of my bag, traveling everywhere with me as an empty memento, reminding me that even as I recover, grow, and change, I cannot let go of everything, something I’ve resigned myself to accepting.
Still, I open it, trying to be brave, bigger than the mute little mouse that I’ve become.
I forgot how her handwriting looked, just as I’ve forgotten the sound of my own voice, but it hits me all at once. Every curlicue, every typed out onomatopoeia, every sentence ending in an exclamation mark, every word bursting with perfect joy from someone who to this day seems to have been assigned the fate I was meant for.
“Here’s a new journal! I know you like mellow colors and minimalism, so it was hard to find one that was perfect, but I think I nailed it! I better have, because this is the only one you’re getting! Eep! Whatever, it doesn’t matter what the outside looks like, because nothing will be as beautiful as the words on the inside! Keep writing, never stop, and drown the world in your beauty! It’s yours to conquer! I’d say more but I don’t want to waste journal space! You’ve always done better with words than me!
~Oodles of Love, Amie!”
I notice that I don’t cry, but I’m holding the notebook to my chest, pretending that it’s her. I try and imagine Amie in a decor store, covered head to toe in sloppy, colorful clothes with some unknown object jangling in her purse, trying to find something subtle enough for my tastes far way from the technicolor Lisa-Frankesque styles she preferred, frustratedly looking for something she knew I’d like and then trusting me to do whatever I wanted with it.
What I did with it was write nothing, say nothing, withhold my writing from it because the empty pages would be too tear-stained for me to write legibly on. Now here I am, holding it to my chest, strong enough to acknowledge it, tears withheld, but at a loss for words. Poetry fails me, and the beauty of the moment falls apart faster than I can put it together. Nothing I could write would honor her last gift to me.
But I have to write. I need to, or I might never put the ink to one of these pages.
So I start writing to you, because I don’t know what else I can say to Amie. It isn’t poetic, it isn’t beautiful, it barely sounds like it’s from me. It’s straightforward, blunt, precise, desperate, but says everything I need it to. I scribble it down in graceless writing and fold it up. It doesn’t even fill a page, but it’s nice not to mince words. I fold it, write “to Vi” on the top, and hold it.
I stare at it for a full minute, wondering if I should give it to you, hand on Amie's notebook, her final gift. I look at it for faith, for reassurance, for something to make sense, when I realize that I hid from it for years, afraid to face her memory, so caught up thinking you had underestimated me and seen me as too weak to face the challenges of life when I never gave myself the chance to face those fears.
I take the paper that has “to Vi” written on it, and throw it into the fire. The fire molds to it, turning it into ashes, commanding me to say what I need to say directly. I think of Amie, my best friend, my first love, the energy to my peace, the happiness to my misery, a temporary solution to permanent problems, the loss that prompted me to face many fears, only now the last of which is grief.
Compared to that, this is easy.
Now to wait.
More abandoned breakfast simmering. More fire crackling. More sunlight peeking in. More silence. The longer it lasts, the less it affects me, and the lower my blood pressure drops. The silence still sends a crawl up my spine but I manage, turning it into an endurance challenge, wondering where you and your father are, if you’re still out in the hammock waiting for me.
That’s when the voices grow louder, entirely muffled by the wall, but both with evident tone. His tone is pleading, desperate, clearly the louder of the two, and yours is angry, spiteful. I can’t decipher a single word yet I feel I know the entire conversation. I close my eyes, trying to block it out, trying to keep a distance, but all too involved. The voices end with a brief, quieter conversation, then I hear a door open. You walk out, paying no one any mind, and two seconds later another set of doors opens and closes as you exit into the garden. I hear your father beg “at least take a cup of coffee with you!” It's too late. Just like that, you’re gone off to parts unknown, leaving me with David.
He walks in, trying to hide his being distraught by serving up breakfast. I notice my coffee cup still has liquid in it, and the mug is warm to the touch, so I drink. It’s tar black and tar flavored, but at least it’s something to wake me up, so I stomach it, waiting for David to plop whatever he made onto the plate. He does- sausage, eggs, and bacon. No potatoes, no greens, just straight up meat.
“I go in late today,” he says, assuming I know his career. “So I thought I’d make some breakfast. I’d hoped it’d be a complete family affair, but…” He sighs, thinking his words over, giving me time to eat some food. Like before, it tastes pretty good, especially considering the school standards I judge it by. He looks at me, and I force a smile. His face drops, wiser than I gave him credit for.
“I sincerely apologize if we woke you up,” he says. “I’d hoped any strife we had wouldn’t spill over, but nothing can be perfect. Regardless, I hope this breakfast is a decent mea culpa.”
I nod, taking a bite, trying to avoid imagining what the conversation between you and your father consisted of to make you so angry, and if it compounded the anger between us already.
A few awkward seconds pass before he speaks again. “I’m not sure how much she…” He swallows, measuring every word in a way even my tenure as a poet never amounted to. “How much she shared with you.” I close my eyes, because I’m not sure either. He continues. “I’d imagine you have a long enough history together for stories like this to grow organically.”
I shake my head in response, eyes still sewn shut. I hear him set his fork down, and after a second of presumed swallowing, he says “It’s not my place. And I’m not sure what to tell you. I still have yet to decipher..." he gulps, as if he knows he's on the wrong side of history and is clawing against everything to find the way out. "How I feel about everything. But I do want to say…”
Silent again, but even if I could speak, I don’t know what I’d say. I open my eyes, but now he’s closed his, not looking at me, head near folded hands, as if in prayer. My scarf chafes against my neck as he lets seconds go by before he finally breaks the silence.
“I don’t know if I understand,” he begins. “And I am trying, I swear. I wasn’t born into the faith… I found it after I lost...her.” The way he says her, just that word, as if saying the name to this day will still make him cry, shakes me to the core even though I dig my nails into my legs to appear unaffected. “For the longest time, I fell into it out of necessity. To stay on my two feet. Now, here I am, two and a half decades later, seeing the same powerful wounds on my daughter, not sure how I can reconcile what healed me with the need to heal her.”
I say nothing, silently daring him to continue, to break my heart, to lower my expectations.
“I only now realize,” he begins, stopping me before I can take another bite of egg. “I realize that you are to Violet the same comfort that Christ was to me.” He interrupts himself, embarrassed, likely because of my saucer-dish eyes questioning his sanity. “I don’t mean to scare you and claim you’re her God, I just mean… she cares. She does. And you’re helping her get over something that I will never forgive myself for letting happen, something I wish I could understand the pain of, to take from her. I never can, and I… didn’t know how to handle it. Not even God could answer me. Now, I think I know.”
The food can go cold, for all I care, because everything depends on what he says here. It’s make or break, and all I can do is hope for the best.
He doesn’t waste any time. “All I know I can say is that the fact that she feels safe around you, that she can trust you, despite it all. That, to me, is something sacred.” He finishes his coffee, ending his statement very near tears. “And I don't know if I have anything else to say.”
I don't think he needed to say anything else. I try and wipe my tears before he sees them, my defenses stripped layer by layer like an onion, leaving me tearful, confused, yet strangely okay. I just nod, and he smiles. I take the last bite that I desire out of my breakfast and prepare to leave. I look back, and see him there, looking both relieved and terrified. I wonder if I'm the first human being he's trusted in decades, just as I've been the first you've trusted after your own defenses were torn down.
I don't know if Jesus is more than a literary hero, but when they say he helped the blind to see, the deaf to hear, and the mute to speak, I believe it with all of my heart. I just don't believe he can bring the dead back to life. Nothing is more permanent than death, and we can only hope our actions can adapt to its permanence.
I'm unsure of what to do, so I walk to him and reach for his hand. He extends it to me, curious, the lines on his face telling a million stories. I take his with both of mine and smile, if only to somehow communicate that this was never a role I wouldn't take seriously. Tears race down his face, getting lost in the wrinkles only five decades of hardships could produce. I let go and walk out of the room, leaving him to his own fate.
I walk into the bathroom, assessing myself again. I don't look any different. In fact, I still look a mess from sleeping in my clothes straight through the night for twelve hours or so. My hair is a static-ravaged mess, and my eyes glisten with undropped tears. My scarf has become a part of my skin, and my clothes beg for change. I am small in build, and my metabolism has left me as thin as stained glass. I don't know if I could ever experience points lower than I have even if I were to surrender to every dusty crow in this town. I am startling, I am flawed, but I am beautiful, because I know.
I know now that even if I have been selfish or short-sighted, I am necessary. I know that even if I look tired, haggard, or fragile, I am strong. I know that even if in my past I didn't know what I had until it was gone, I have what I need now. I know that even as I have rendered myself mute, I have never been able to communicate better. I know that even though I've hurt myself before, ready to throw myself off of a bridge to succumb to the mysterious murder that followed me wherever I went, that I am loved, not just by others, but by myself, because I am still alive. For that, I am beautiful, a restored masterpiece. I have nothing to prove, and everything to give.
I slowly take off my scarf, and it sticks to my skin for the briefest of moments. I brace myself to see it, to face it, even as it is a part of me. I remove it and set it on the counter, wound into itself. The scar on my neck looks back at me, from a time where my final poem was jagged, heavy handed, ugly, and unrefined. I hated the fact that I failed, never realizing until later that this second chance saved me. My final poem, whenever it may be written, will be beautiful, learned every day and formed from the words I never said.
I face myself, eye to eye, and nod, happy with myself.
I realize the Dramamine is still on the table, and I go to put it away. In my bag, I hit my notebook, still unused. The written word has always been my favorite form of communication, even before it was my chief form, yet this notebook has remained empty for years. I intended to fill it page to page, honor every line with words that lived up to the person who gave it to me. Instead, it lies in the bottom of my bag, traveling everywhere with me as an empty memento, reminding me that even as I recover, grow, and change, I cannot let go of everything, something I’ve resigned myself to accepting.
Still, I open it, trying to be brave, bigger than the mute little mouse that I’ve become.
I forgot how her handwriting looked, just as I’ve forgotten the sound of my own voice, but it hits me all at once. Every curlicue, every typed out onomatopoeia, every sentence ending in an exclamation mark, every word bursting with perfect joy from someone who to this day seems to have been assigned the fate I was meant for.
“Here’s a new journal! I know you like mellow colors and minimalism, so it was hard to find one that was perfect, but I think I nailed it! I better have, because this is the only one you’re getting! Eep! Whatever, it doesn’t matter what the outside looks like, because nothing will be as beautiful as the words on the inside! Keep writing, never stop, and drown the world in your beauty! It’s yours to conquer! I’d say more but I don’t want to waste journal space! You’ve always done better with words than me!
~Oodles of Love, Amie!”
I notice that I don’t cry, but I’m holding the notebook to my chest, pretending that it’s her. I try and imagine Amie in a decor store, covered head to toe in sloppy, colorful clothes with some unknown object jangling in her purse, trying to find something subtle enough for my tastes far way from the technicolor Lisa-Frankesque styles she preferred, frustratedly looking for something she knew I’d like and then trusting me to do whatever I wanted with it.
What I did with it was write nothing, say nothing, withhold my writing from it because the empty pages would be too tear-stained for me to write legibly on. Now here I am, holding it to my chest, strong enough to acknowledge it, tears withheld, but at a loss for words. Poetry fails me, and the beauty of the moment falls apart faster than I can put it together. Nothing I could write would honor her last gift to me.
But I have to write. I need to, or I might never put the ink to one of these pages.
So I start writing to you, because I don’t know what else I can say to Amie. It isn’t poetic, it isn’t beautiful, it barely sounds like it’s from me. It’s straightforward, blunt, precise, desperate, but says everything I need it to. I scribble it down in graceless writing and fold it up. It doesn’t even fill a page, but it’s nice not to mince words. I fold it, write “to Vi” on the top, and hold it.
I stare at it for a full minute, wondering if I should give it to you, hand on Amie's notebook, her final gift. I look at it for faith, for reassurance, for something to make sense, when I realize that I hid from it for years, afraid to face her memory, so caught up thinking you had underestimated me and seen me as too weak to face the challenges of life when I never gave myself the chance to face those fears.
I take the paper that has “to Vi” written on it, and throw it into the fire. The fire molds to it, turning it into ashes, commanding me to say what I need to say directly. I think of Amie, my best friend, my first love, the energy to my peace, the happiness to my misery, a temporary solution to permanent problems, the loss that prompted me to face many fears, only now the last of which is grief.
Compared to that, this is easy.
Now to wait.
More abandoned breakfast simmering. More fire crackling. More sunlight peeking in. More silence. The longer it lasts, the less it affects me, and the lower my blood pressure drops. The silence still sends a crawl up my spine but I manage, turning it into an endurance challenge, wondering where you and your father are, if you’re still out in the hammock waiting for me.
That’s when the voices grow louder, entirely muffled by the wall, but both with evident tone. His tone is pleading, desperate, clearly the louder of the two, and yours is angry, spiteful. I can’t decipher a single word yet I feel I know the entire conversation. I close my eyes, trying to block it out, trying to keep a distance, but all too involved. The voices end with a brief, quieter conversation, then I hear a door open. You walk out, paying no one any mind, and two seconds later another set of doors opens and closes as you exit into the garden. I hear your father beg “at least take a cup of coffee with you!” It's too late. Just like that, you’re gone off to parts unknown, leaving me with David.
He walks in, trying to hide his being distraught by serving up breakfast. I notice my coffee cup still has liquid in it, and the mug is warm to the touch, so I drink. It’s tar black and tar flavored, but at least it’s something to wake me up, so I stomach it, waiting for David to plop whatever he made onto the plate. He does- sausage, eggs, and bacon. No potatoes, no greens, just straight up meat.
“I go in late today,” he says, assuming I know his career. “So I thought I’d make some breakfast. I’d hoped it’d be a complete family affair, but…” He sighs, thinking his words over, giving me time to eat some food. Like before, it tastes pretty good, especially considering the school standards I judge it by. He looks at me, and I force a smile. His face drops, wiser than I gave him credit for.
“I sincerely apologize if we woke you up,” he says. “I’d hoped any strife we had wouldn’t spill over, but nothing can be perfect. Regardless, I hope this breakfast is a decent mea culpa.”
I nod, taking a bite, trying to avoid imagining what the conversation between you and your father consisted of to make you so angry, and if it compounded the anger between us already.
A few awkward seconds pass before he speaks again. “I’m not sure how much she…” He swallows, measuring every word in a way even my tenure as a poet never amounted to. “How much she shared with you.” I close my eyes, because I’m not sure either. He continues. “I’d imagine you have a long enough history together for stories like this to grow organically.”
I shake my head in response, eyes still sewn shut. I hear him set his fork down, and after a second of presumed swallowing, he says “It’s not my place. And I’m not sure what to tell you. I still have yet to decipher..." he gulps, as if he knows he's on the wrong side of history and is clawing against everything to find the way out. "How I feel about everything. But I do want to say…”
Silent again, but even if I could speak, I don’t know what I’d say. I open my eyes, but now he’s closed his, not looking at me, head near folded hands, as if in prayer. My scarf chafes against my neck as he lets seconds go by before he finally breaks the silence.
“I don’t know if I understand,” he begins. “And I am trying, I swear. I wasn’t born into the faith… I found it after I lost...her.” The way he says her, just that word, as if saying the name to this day will still make him cry, shakes me to the core even though I dig my nails into my legs to appear unaffected. “For the longest time, I fell into it out of necessity. To stay on my two feet. Now, here I am, two and a half decades later, seeing the same powerful wounds on my daughter, not sure how I can reconcile what healed me with the need to heal her.”
I say nothing, silently daring him to continue, to break my heart, to lower my expectations.
“I only now realize,” he begins, stopping me before I can take another bite of egg. “I realize that you are to Violet the same comfort that Christ was to me.” He interrupts himself, embarrassed, likely because of my saucer-dish eyes questioning his sanity. “I don’t mean to scare you and claim you’re her God, I just mean… she cares. She does. And you’re helping her get over something that I will never forgive myself for letting happen, something I wish I could understand the pain of, to take from her. I never can, and I… didn’t know how to handle it. Not even God could answer me. Now, I think I know.”
The food can go cold, for all I care, because everything depends on what he says here. It’s make or break, and all I can do is hope for the best.
He doesn’t waste any time. “All I know I can say is that the fact that she feels safe around you, that she can trust you, despite it all. That, to me, is something sacred.” He finishes his coffee, ending his statement very near tears. “And I don't know if I have anything else to say.”
I don't think he needed to say anything else. I try and wipe my tears before he sees them, my defenses stripped layer by layer like an onion, leaving me tearful, confused, yet strangely okay. I just nod, and he smiles. I take the last bite that I desire out of my breakfast and prepare to leave. I look back, and see him there, looking both relieved and terrified. I wonder if I'm the first human being he's trusted in decades, just as I've been the first you've trusted after your own defenses were torn down.
I don't know if Jesus is more than a literary hero, but when they say he helped the blind to see, the deaf to hear, and the mute to speak, I believe it with all of my heart. I just don't believe he can bring the dead back to life. Nothing is more permanent than death, and we can only hope our actions can adapt to its permanence.
I'm unsure of what to do, so I walk to him and reach for his hand. He extends it to me, curious, the lines on his face telling a million stories. I take his with both of mine and smile, if only to somehow communicate that this was never a role I wouldn't take seriously. Tears race down his face, getting lost in the wrinkles only five decades of hardships could produce. I let go and walk out of the room, leaving him to his own fate.
I walk into the bathroom, assessing myself again. I don't look any different. In fact, I still look a mess from sleeping in my clothes straight through the night for twelve hours or so. My hair is a static-ravaged mess, and my eyes glisten with undropped tears. My scarf has become a part of my skin, and my clothes beg for change. I am small in build, and my metabolism has left me as thin as stained glass. I don't know if I could ever experience points lower than I have even if I were to surrender to every dusty crow in this town. I am startling, I am flawed, but I am beautiful, because I know.
I know now that even if I have been selfish or short-sighted, I am necessary. I know that even if I look tired, haggard, or fragile, I am strong. I know that even if in my past I didn't know what I had until it was gone, I have what I need now. I know that even as I have rendered myself mute, I have never been able to communicate better. I know that even though I've hurt myself before, ready to throw myself off of a bridge to succumb to the mysterious murder that followed me wherever I went, that I am loved, not just by others, but by myself, because I am still alive. For that, I am beautiful, a restored masterpiece. I have nothing to prove, and everything to give.
I slowly take off my scarf, and it sticks to my skin for the briefest of moments. I brace myself to see it, to face it, even as it is a part of me. I remove it and set it on the counter, wound into itself. The scar on my neck looks back at me, from a time where my final poem was jagged, heavy handed, ugly, and unrefined. I hated the fact that I failed, never realizing until later that this second chance saved me. My final poem, whenever it may be written, will be beautiful, learned every day and formed from the words I never said.
I face myself, eye to eye, and nod, happy with myself.
Safe: show
My gut instinct was correct, as you're on the hammock alone. The trail has been blazed into the dead grain, everything golden and green gone to hell beneath your imposing bootsteps. I follow it step for step, my footsteps leaving nothing but the passing of a living ghost. The path leads to you- to many things, really, but primarily to you, rocking in the hammock, stone-faced. I slowly sit next to you, trying to let the words flow into me. You don't face me, barely acknowledging my existence. I tap your shoulder, and you don't respond, so I can't speak to you, so I wait for you to speak.
“You know now,” you say. “Don't you. About the knife.”
I nod, but I gasp. I remember seeing it in the bag, but didn't think much of it.
“Yeah, there you go,” you say. “Papa thought it was proof that I wasn't safe. Well, no ♥♥♥♥, Papa. The world isn't safe. He's a ♥♥♥♥ cop, right? He should know that, right?” You stop short of a rant and ask me “He should, right?”
He does, but when you love someone rationality can slip away. I just nod again. You swallow, slapping your leg quickly, trying to find the right words.
“I've had this under my bed every night,” you blurt. “Just in case. And sometimes I'll wake up thinking I was stabbed but it's just the knife under my bed. But whatever, it's something. Ya know, to keep something to protect me, cause... I'm always on the lookout for her... and she's in prison, that's the funny part. I don't know, I just expect her to show up, pretend nothing happened, like she always did.”
That's the most I've ever heard you speak about it, and my hand instinctively finds your back. You let it happen, but flinch. I pull away, but you grab my arm, still looking away, but your facade cracking into visible emotion.
“That's why I'm not ever going to let you go through anything as awful as we have ever again. Because we can't lose each other. But you have to trust that I can't be exactly who you want me to be, because sometimes you're not all that and a bag of chips either, okay?” I wince, my self-confident trip slowing, but at least you're honest, at least you're saying what you need to say.
“Whatever, sometimes I'm too close, but I never got someone to help me up when life shoved me around. Sometimes you're really pushy, and you really want me to talk when I just want to shut the ♥♥♥♥ up and enjoy the silence, but I know that you hate it being quiet. So just...”
The first sob hits before the first tear, and I know I've done it, for better or worse.
“For you to say that I don't trust you, or that I pity you...” A black tear falls. “Jesus Christ, what did I do to make you think that, April? Because I hold you too close or I try and keep you together? Because if anything ever happened to you like it did to me, it would send me right back to square one? You're the first woman I've trusted since it happened.” More tears hit dead grass, like poison dew settling in. “You're the reason that I'm not looking over my shoulder all the time. Hell, I can't even go to a ♥♥♥♥' locker room but...” You stop, as if you're unprepared to go this far. I know why, and it hurts, because now I am the salt in a longstanding wound. "You know that I trust you in ways no human being deserves from me." I blush, ashamed, and you choke out a laugh. “I goddamn love you, you dumb broad, so would you cut that ♥♥♥♥ out? Because when you said that, you just...”
You don't finish your sentence, swallowing your sob, clearing your throat, and letting the silence in. “Whatever, right? Just... whatever.”
No, it's not whatever. That might be your favorite word, but I know a futile cry when I see one.
I lean over your shoulder, slowly wrapping my arms around you. Softly, carefully, making sure every movement is just fine. When I'm certain you're okay with it, I whisper at the top of my lungs “I'm not going anywhere.” It doesn't sound like much of anything, but I swear I can hear something in the wind echoing my statements, and somehow it gives me faith that my message has been heard. You relax ever so slightly and place a hand on my shoulder. A lone crow, the final one of the migration, flies above our heads in complete silence, letting me be, haunting me no more. The blackbird's song is over now.
You realize something, and fumble for my scarf on your shoulders, realizing it's not there. “April,” you say silently; not from accommodation, but shock. It's a small gesture physically, but the scars plead otherwise.
I smile, weaving my hand into yours so intimately that we may never be separate entities again, yet at the same time, that's all we are- two parts of the same heart.
“Let it happen,” I dare the world.
“You know now,” you say. “Don't you. About the knife.”
I nod, but I gasp. I remember seeing it in the bag, but didn't think much of it.
“Yeah, there you go,” you say. “Papa thought it was proof that I wasn't safe. Well, no ♥♥♥♥, Papa. The world isn't safe. He's a ♥♥♥♥ cop, right? He should know that, right?” You stop short of a rant and ask me “He should, right?”
He does, but when you love someone rationality can slip away. I just nod again. You swallow, slapping your leg quickly, trying to find the right words.
“I've had this under my bed every night,” you blurt. “Just in case. And sometimes I'll wake up thinking I was stabbed but it's just the knife under my bed. But whatever, it's something. Ya know, to keep something to protect me, cause... I'm always on the lookout for her... and she's in prison, that's the funny part. I don't know, I just expect her to show up, pretend nothing happened, like she always did.”
That's the most I've ever heard you speak about it, and my hand instinctively finds your back. You let it happen, but flinch. I pull away, but you grab my arm, still looking away, but your facade cracking into visible emotion.
“That's why I'm not ever going to let you go through anything as awful as we have ever again. Because we can't lose each other. But you have to trust that I can't be exactly who you want me to be, because sometimes you're not all that and a bag of chips either, okay?” I wince, my self-confident trip slowing, but at least you're honest, at least you're saying what you need to say.
“Whatever, sometimes I'm too close, but I never got someone to help me up when life shoved me around. Sometimes you're really pushy, and you really want me to talk when I just want to shut the ♥♥♥♥ up and enjoy the silence, but I know that you hate it being quiet. So just...”
The first sob hits before the first tear, and I know I've done it, for better or worse.
“For you to say that I don't trust you, or that I pity you...” A black tear falls. “Jesus Christ, what did I do to make you think that, April? Because I hold you too close or I try and keep you together? Because if anything ever happened to you like it did to me, it would send me right back to square one? You're the first woman I've trusted since it happened.” More tears hit dead grass, like poison dew settling in. “You're the reason that I'm not looking over my shoulder all the time. Hell, I can't even go to a ♥♥♥♥' locker room but...” You stop, as if you're unprepared to go this far. I know why, and it hurts, because now I am the salt in a longstanding wound. "You know that I trust you in ways no human being deserves from me." I blush, ashamed, and you choke out a laugh. “I goddamn love you, you dumb broad, so would you cut that ♥♥♥♥ out? Because when you said that, you just...”
You don't finish your sentence, swallowing your sob, clearing your throat, and letting the silence in. “Whatever, right? Just... whatever.”
No, it's not whatever. That might be your favorite word, but I know a futile cry when I see one.
I lean over your shoulder, slowly wrapping my arms around you. Softly, carefully, making sure every movement is just fine. When I'm certain you're okay with it, I whisper at the top of my lungs “I'm not going anywhere.” It doesn't sound like much of anything, but I swear I can hear something in the wind echoing my statements, and somehow it gives me faith that my message has been heard. You relax ever so slightly and place a hand on my shoulder. A lone crow, the final one of the migration, flies above our heads in complete silence, letting me be, haunting me no more. The blackbird's song is over now.
You realize something, and fumble for my scarf on your shoulders, realizing it's not there. “April,” you say silently; not from accommodation, but shock. It's a small gesture physically, but the scars plead otherwise.
I smile, weaving my hand into yours so intimately that we may never be separate entities again, yet at the same time, that's all we are- two parts of the same heart.
“Let it happen,” I dare the world.
Timshel: show
I take the towel from my hair and let it hang over me, wet and more than a little unsettled in a pleasant way. I snag it into a ponytail, and it drapes in a frizzy mess behind me. I look formal, but I don't mind it. My blue blouse is tied to my chest like a bodice, and a knee-high black skirt lies below it, flowing like the endless Kansas night skies. I even picked out my sole pair of unscuffled (unused) black heels. I don't know what restaurants there are in Goodland, but I hope they're white tie. I also hope they don't have a policy for scarves and against neck scars, because I am not changing this for the world.
I leave the bathroom, walking to the living room to assess my bag. I’ve packed nearly everything away, but somehow I’ve left with less baggage than I’ve entered. I take Amie’s journal out and set it on top before zipping it closed. I’ve already filled a few pages over the last few days, whether I’ve struck poetic gold or discarded rough drafts is yet to be seen. It’s amazing how time flies, that we’re heading home soon. I almost don’t want to leave things behind; the garden, the fields, the hammock, the setpieces for time spent underneath each other’s skin, learning each other in new ways. I’ll even miss your father; my fascination with his learning process and progressive sermons fueling many poems, and your efforts to repair your relationships fueling my respect and love for you. I don’t know what us back in Wyoming looks like, but it’s an exciting progress. It’s the idea of leaving Goodland that startles me, because we’re all leaving chapters of our lives here, letting them burn in the dead cornfields.
I find you lying on your bed, door lazily creaked open. The covers are still strewn over you, your leg sticking out, fast asleep. I shake my head and start to walk over to you when I trip over your almost completely packed bag. I nearly fall, cursing you mentally for this rampant mess, when I see the red handle of the knife sticking out of it, almost exactly the same as it was when I first saw it. I shake my head, smiling fondly, finally understanding.
The commotion wakes you up. You groan, stretching, throwing your blanket off of you. YThe commotion wakes you up. You groan, stretching, throwing your blanket off of you. Even though you didn't even bother to change out of your jeans and tank top before napping, you look like you'd never known the waking world. It's not as sad as it used to be- as disheveled as you are next to me, you're at peace. “Shiiiiit,” you groan. “How long?”
I think for a second and hold up two fingers, sitting next to you.
“No, how long til he gets here," you repeat, slowly inching into my personal space, silently daring to ruin my perfectly organized look.
I hold up all ten fingers, saving my breath since you're close to taking it right now. You groan again and whine “I wanted to sleep in. Just tell Papa that you knocked me out or something.”
“I'm sure he'd rather not know about that,” I reply. You reach for my hair, giggling, but push yourself up. I go to the closet to find you the plaid button-up shirt you wore on day one, and you dig around for longer pants. As you put them on, I leave the closet for the last time, and you look me over and wolf-whistle. It's kitschy, but charming, and I blush. You finish dressing by pulling your indistinguishable boots on and stand next to me, wrapping an arm around my waist carefully, looking at me.
“We're far too late for careful courtship,” I tease you, and you lean down to kiss me softly. I rest my hand behind your neck, tracing your collarbone, but you stop me, hand on mine. I pull apart and look up at you.
“That's a little... knifey,” you say, trying your damndest to maintain my gaze and inject humor into a cold world. “Just a little creepy.” I nod, and wait for you to take my hand. You move it around your waist and look me in the eye. “That's much better,” you say, repeating it as we settle into our routines. “Much better. Thank you. I... this is nice.”
We hold each other there, lost in time, taking it all in. “This is happening,” I say.
“April showers bring May flowers,” you reply, and I laugh, even though it sounds like pained wheezing. “It was the one good line I ever wrote,” you bemoan.
“Well, when you barely write,” I remind you. You smirk and lean down towards me again when I hear the honk. You nearly leap off of me, careening out of the door, snagging your bag without missing a step. Amused, I follow.
“You said he wasn't gonna be here for ten minutes!” you accuse me as we run together, time running out but just beginning. I laugh quietly as I grab my bag with firm grip, and follow you out the door, the fire burnt into coals. The car is here, and he keeps honking, but even from here I can tell he's grinning. The trunk’s open for both our bags. We fit them in, and I take the notebook into my hands, keeping it safe against my chest. You launch into the front seat, and I take my time settling behind him, hugging my knees after I drape my skirt over them.
“Good evening, senoras,” he says, turning the radio down. “I'm glad we've got the family together.” You smile, and since I can tell there's a shake to his voice behind the confidence, I smile too, even if he can't see it.
“Hey, Papa,” you say, looking ahead. “Yeah, glad I'm here too. You never know, I might actually miss this place for once.”
I nod my head vigorously, as if that will make it louder. I see David smile in the rear view mirror. “There's a diner just downtown we can go to on our way out. Not a drive-thru stand, and certainly no mere McDonalds.”
I sigh in relief, and you proclaim “Thank God.”
“It was his idea, actually.” His straight face only lasts until you creak your head over to him, and I watch your disbelief turn into relief when he cracks a grin. When you start laughing, I laugh- the joke's admittedly as abysmal as you'd expect from an awkward father, but charming for the same reasons.
“Was that a joke, Papa?” you ask, incredulous. Finally, he laughs, confirming it as much. You shake your head, but any tension that was left entering the car is gone now.
It becomes quiet, to the point where I can hear the radio. It’s not a sermon this time, but music, quiet folk music I remember from my high school days, the type of music I pumped into my veins like an IV for life, when I worked to build a desire to live without her, and with all my demons. In some ways, it hurts to hear, but the shame dissipates, because I’m on my way to better ideals.
“And you have your choices,” I hear. “These are what make man great, his ladder to the stars.”
A long lost elixir turns into a new indulgence. I find myself rolling the window down, letting the wind brush through my hair, dust and all. Only there's not as much dust as I've dramatized. The surroundings are plain, but in a country sort of way, the monotony keeps it unified. There are some people sitting on porches with each other, or lighting a smoke alone. Children are playing in yards and stray cats are making a kingdom out of this tiny town. When we get closer to downtown, the homes break into quaint stores with hand-painted signs and government buildings no higher than two stories. What I once thought was a burnt-out dust bowl remnant I now see through new eyes. New blood runs through every buzzing streetlight, finally giving us some nourishment, the sun at its peak, a new day at last. There isn't a crow left to be found.
I look at you and smile, and you return it. David notices you aren't listening anymore and shakes his head, but looks endeared. Somehow, nothing more needs to be said.
I leave the bathroom, walking to the living room to assess my bag. I’ve packed nearly everything away, but somehow I’ve left with less baggage than I’ve entered. I take Amie’s journal out and set it on top before zipping it closed. I’ve already filled a few pages over the last few days, whether I’ve struck poetic gold or discarded rough drafts is yet to be seen. It’s amazing how time flies, that we’re heading home soon. I almost don’t want to leave things behind; the garden, the fields, the hammock, the setpieces for time spent underneath each other’s skin, learning each other in new ways. I’ll even miss your father; my fascination with his learning process and progressive sermons fueling many poems, and your efforts to repair your relationships fueling my respect and love for you. I don’t know what us back in Wyoming looks like, but it’s an exciting progress. It’s the idea of leaving Goodland that startles me, because we’re all leaving chapters of our lives here, letting them burn in the dead cornfields.
I find you lying on your bed, door lazily creaked open. The covers are still strewn over you, your leg sticking out, fast asleep. I shake my head and start to walk over to you when I trip over your almost completely packed bag. I nearly fall, cursing you mentally for this rampant mess, when I see the red handle of the knife sticking out of it, almost exactly the same as it was when I first saw it. I shake my head, smiling fondly, finally understanding.
The commotion wakes you up. You groan, stretching, throwing your blanket off of you. YThe commotion wakes you up. You groan, stretching, throwing your blanket off of you. Even though you didn't even bother to change out of your jeans and tank top before napping, you look like you'd never known the waking world. It's not as sad as it used to be- as disheveled as you are next to me, you're at peace. “Shiiiiit,” you groan. “How long?”
I think for a second and hold up two fingers, sitting next to you.
“No, how long til he gets here," you repeat, slowly inching into my personal space, silently daring to ruin my perfectly organized look.
I hold up all ten fingers, saving my breath since you're close to taking it right now. You groan again and whine “I wanted to sleep in. Just tell Papa that you knocked me out or something.”
“I'm sure he'd rather not know about that,” I reply. You reach for my hair, giggling, but push yourself up. I go to the closet to find you the plaid button-up shirt you wore on day one, and you dig around for longer pants. As you put them on, I leave the closet for the last time, and you look me over and wolf-whistle. It's kitschy, but charming, and I blush. You finish dressing by pulling your indistinguishable boots on and stand next to me, wrapping an arm around my waist carefully, looking at me.
“We're far too late for careful courtship,” I tease you, and you lean down to kiss me softly. I rest my hand behind your neck, tracing your collarbone, but you stop me, hand on mine. I pull apart and look up at you.
“That's a little... knifey,” you say, trying your damndest to maintain my gaze and inject humor into a cold world. “Just a little creepy.” I nod, and wait for you to take my hand. You move it around your waist and look me in the eye. “That's much better,” you say, repeating it as we settle into our routines. “Much better. Thank you. I... this is nice.”
We hold each other there, lost in time, taking it all in. “This is happening,” I say.
“April showers bring May flowers,” you reply, and I laugh, even though it sounds like pained wheezing. “It was the one good line I ever wrote,” you bemoan.
“Well, when you barely write,” I remind you. You smirk and lean down towards me again when I hear the honk. You nearly leap off of me, careening out of the door, snagging your bag without missing a step. Amused, I follow.
“You said he wasn't gonna be here for ten minutes!” you accuse me as we run together, time running out but just beginning. I laugh quietly as I grab my bag with firm grip, and follow you out the door, the fire burnt into coals. The car is here, and he keeps honking, but even from here I can tell he's grinning. The trunk’s open for both our bags. We fit them in, and I take the notebook into my hands, keeping it safe against my chest. You launch into the front seat, and I take my time settling behind him, hugging my knees after I drape my skirt over them.
“Good evening, senoras,” he says, turning the radio down. “I'm glad we've got the family together.” You smile, and since I can tell there's a shake to his voice behind the confidence, I smile too, even if he can't see it.
“Hey, Papa,” you say, looking ahead. “Yeah, glad I'm here too. You never know, I might actually miss this place for once.”
I nod my head vigorously, as if that will make it louder. I see David smile in the rear view mirror. “There's a diner just downtown we can go to on our way out. Not a drive-thru stand, and certainly no mere McDonalds.”
I sigh in relief, and you proclaim “Thank God.”
“It was his idea, actually.” His straight face only lasts until you creak your head over to him, and I watch your disbelief turn into relief when he cracks a grin. When you start laughing, I laugh- the joke's admittedly as abysmal as you'd expect from an awkward father, but charming for the same reasons.
“Was that a joke, Papa?” you ask, incredulous. Finally, he laughs, confirming it as much. You shake your head, but any tension that was left entering the car is gone now.
It becomes quiet, to the point where I can hear the radio. It’s not a sermon this time, but music, quiet folk music I remember from my high school days, the type of music I pumped into my veins like an IV for life, when I worked to build a desire to live without her, and with all my demons. In some ways, it hurts to hear, but the shame dissipates, because I’m on my way to better ideals.
“And you have your choices,” I hear. “These are what make man great, his ladder to the stars.”
A long lost elixir turns into a new indulgence. I find myself rolling the window down, letting the wind brush through my hair, dust and all. Only there's not as much dust as I've dramatized. The surroundings are plain, but in a country sort of way, the monotony keeps it unified. There are some people sitting on porches with each other, or lighting a smoke alone. Children are playing in yards and stray cats are making a kingdom out of this tiny town. When we get closer to downtown, the homes break into quaint stores with hand-painted signs and government buildings no higher than two stories. What I once thought was a burnt-out dust bowl remnant I now see through new eyes. New blood runs through every buzzing streetlight, finally giving us some nourishment, the sun at its peak, a new day at last. There isn't a crow left to be found.
I look at you and smile, and you return it. David notices you aren't listening anymore and shakes his head, but looks endeared. Somehow, nothing more needs to be said.
