HATBORO
I was turning twelve. There was one full glorious year before I’d ever be diagnosed with cancer. There was one full year of exploration and excitement.
I was wearing jean shorts with a cuff at the bottom, my hair was permed and my hips had not grown in yet, I still had little buds for breasts. He had a strong jaw, a square nose, dark brown eyes, thin lips and a wide, mischievous smile. My boyfriend, Steve and I stayed up all night on the phone the night before planning it out and spent weeks passing each other notes folded up into tiny triangles full of cryptic language: we were to tell our parents that we both had detention (a likely story at the time) and I would ride on his bike pegs to a little patch of woods between his neighborhood and mine, and it would be there that we would both kiss for the first time.
Neither Steve nor I had ever kissed anyone before and we were in love, so it made sense that we would. We both talked a big talk about how we’d been practicing on our pillow, and how we knew we were not only ready, but we’d be the best kissers ever. We were both so nervous, and I leaned forward, I was so surprised at what happened next I jumped back and fell down on some rocks and branches… Steve stuck his tongue in my mouth. (And at the time, I knew that’s what we were aiming for, I mean that was the goal of our whole conniving ordeal, to “French Kiss” but, still, I was startled. )
I wish there was a more romantic word for puppy love. I wish there was a more convincing way or explaining that at the time, Steve and I were willing to risk everything to be around each other. Along with Ginger, we were best friends. We used three-way calling like pros. When we were 12 we thought that there was an eternal bond between us, that no matter where we were in the universe we were connected like a constellation.
I went to Steve’s funeral yesterday.
Ginger and I clasped each other’s arms as old men spoke too loudly in the row behind us. When our six dirty bare feet were touching in the summer-sunshine, who would have thought that at 23 we’d be here, saying “so long” to a point in our constellation.
The obituary said that he “died suddenly on Thursday.” At the service, we were proud of the family for not hiding that he was battling addiction, that he was too young to die, that all of this was unfair.
I found out on Tuesday, and driving home, I was scratching the bee sting on my arm, dizzy and tired from holding back tears at work. As I scratched the inside of my forearm, feeling my soft skin become rough and red: I thought about how young my skin was. The inside of my arm, still feels like a baby. I am only 23 years old.
With a short gasp, I recognized him in the coffin. Besides the makeup on his cold skin and how they stitched his smile closed, he looked the same as he ever did. They buried him in a yellow shirt.
His mother remembered me as the girl who had cancer and the girl he snuck out to meet in the middle of the night when the police found us in a parking lot across the county line and had to bring us both home. His father fondly called me The Parking Lot girl, or at least I think it was fondly.
His brother is going to be married in October. Steve was supposed to be his best man.
All of this because while battling heroine, his boyfriend killed himself and directly afterwards his probation officer got changed. He was supposed to go on a family vacation. (To the same beach house he’s been going to since he was 10 years old. It bears their family name. He told me about it every year when he’d come back. Telling me about how much fun he had sneaking out with his brother and walking along the beach. He’d tell me what the stars looked like and how nice it was there.) The new probation officer wouldn’t let him go to Florida. He stayed home alone and took the phone off the hook. Some people think that he did it on purpose, if he had, if he hadn’t, we couldn’t decide which way would be better.
Sue was there, she was my friend since I was eight years old. She used to collect bugs in jars. (she and I got in a fight, I’m sure she doesn’t remember in high school. She and I used to carpool to school and she did it in front of me. She was in a bad way then: 89 lbs and nodding off at the prom. Her skin looked thin and dead. I stopped being friends with lots of people then. I moved far away to go to school. And everyone else stayed in a town that is 1.5 square miles. Over 6 people have died of an overdose. And many more have ruined their lives.) But Sue was there, and she has been clean for 3 years. Her baby is three years old and I believe that Scottie saved her life. She looks beautiful and happy. I wonder if she knew that when I was hugging her I was thanking God that I didn’t have to go to one of these for her. I wonder if she knew that all this time I’ve been thinking about her and worrying. I wonder if we’ll be friends now.
The played a tape Steve playing guitar and singing Wish you were here, by Pink Floyd, which is probably the most heart wrenching songs I could hear, now. To hear the voice of a ghost is very a haunting thing. It stays with you. All of this stays with you.
I was relieved when all of it was over and my puffy eyes got a chance to rest but then thought about how his Mother wouldn't get that relief. So, I felt guilty when I was relieved to drive the long way home to Baltimore.
I love you, please don’t hurt yourselves.
xo
I was turning twelve. There was one full glorious year before I’d ever be diagnosed with cancer. There was one full year of exploration and excitement.
I was wearing jean shorts with a cuff at the bottom, my hair was permed and my hips had not grown in yet, I still had little buds for breasts. He had a strong jaw, a square nose, dark brown eyes, thin lips and a wide, mischievous smile. My boyfriend, Steve and I stayed up all night on the phone the night before planning it out and spent weeks passing each other notes folded up into tiny triangles full of cryptic language: we were to tell our parents that we both had detention (a likely story at the time) and I would ride on his bike pegs to a little patch of woods between his neighborhood and mine, and it would be there that we would both kiss for the first time.
Neither Steve nor I had ever kissed anyone before and we were in love, so it made sense that we would. We both talked a big talk about how we’d been practicing on our pillow, and how we knew we were not only ready, but we’d be the best kissers ever. We were both so nervous, and I leaned forward, I was so surprised at what happened next I jumped back and fell down on some rocks and branches… Steve stuck his tongue in my mouth. (And at the time, I knew that’s what we were aiming for, I mean that was the goal of our whole conniving ordeal, to “French Kiss” but, still, I was startled. )
I wish there was a more romantic word for puppy love. I wish there was a more convincing way or explaining that at the time, Steve and I were willing to risk everything to be around each other. Along with Ginger, we were best friends. We used three-way calling like pros. When we were 12 we thought that there was an eternal bond between us, that no matter where we were in the universe we were connected like a constellation.
I went to Steve’s funeral yesterday.
Ginger and I clasped each other’s arms as old men spoke too loudly in the row behind us. When our six dirty bare feet were touching in the summer-sunshine, who would have thought that at 23 we’d be here, saying “so long” to a point in our constellation.
The obituary said that he “died suddenly on Thursday.” At the service, we were proud of the family for not hiding that he was battling addiction, that he was too young to die, that all of this was unfair.
I found out on Tuesday, and driving home, I was scratching the bee sting on my arm, dizzy and tired from holding back tears at work. As I scratched the inside of my forearm, feeling my soft skin become rough and red: I thought about how young my skin was. The inside of my arm, still feels like a baby. I am only 23 years old.
With a short gasp, I recognized him in the coffin. Besides the makeup on his cold skin and how they stitched his smile closed, he looked the same as he ever did. They buried him in a yellow shirt.
His mother remembered me as the girl who had cancer and the girl he snuck out to meet in the middle of the night when the police found us in a parking lot across the county line and had to bring us both home. His father fondly called me The Parking Lot girl, or at least I think it was fondly.
His brother is going to be married in October. Steve was supposed to be his best man.
All of this because while battling heroine, his boyfriend killed himself and directly afterwards his probation officer got changed. He was supposed to go on a family vacation. (To the same beach house he’s been going to since he was 10 years old. It bears their family name. He told me about it every year when he’d come back. Telling me about how much fun he had sneaking out with his brother and walking along the beach. He’d tell me what the stars looked like and how nice it was there.) The new probation officer wouldn’t let him go to Florida. He stayed home alone and took the phone off the hook. Some people think that he did it on purpose, if he had, if he hadn’t, we couldn’t decide which way would be better.
Sue was there, she was my friend since I was eight years old. She used to collect bugs in jars. (she and I got in a fight, I’m sure she doesn’t remember in high school. She and I used to carpool to school and she did it in front of me. She was in a bad way then: 89 lbs and nodding off at the prom. Her skin looked thin and dead. I stopped being friends with lots of people then. I moved far away to go to school. And everyone else stayed in a town that is 1.5 square miles. Over 6 people have died of an overdose. And many more have ruined their lives.) But Sue was there, and she has been clean for 3 years. Her baby is three years old and I believe that Scottie saved her life. She looks beautiful and happy. I wonder if she knew that when I was hugging her I was thanking God that I didn’t have to go to one of these for her. I wonder if she knew that all this time I’ve been thinking about her and worrying. I wonder if we’ll be friends now.
The played a tape Steve playing guitar and singing Wish you were here, by Pink Floyd, which is probably the most heart wrenching songs I could hear, now. To hear the voice of a ghost is very a haunting thing. It stays with you. All of this stays with you.
I was relieved when all of it was over and my puffy eyes got a chance to rest but then thought about how his Mother wouldn't get that relief. So, I felt guilty when I was relieved to drive the long way home to Baltimore.
I love you, please don’t hurt yourselves.
xo
posted by j-e-s-s-i-c-a at 10:24 AM
1 Comments:
<3
jeanne.
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