"somewhere other than inside the out there." -- epilogue.
when i was a little girl, i had this pretty little package waiting to be opened. i had a pretty little package that contained something neat and wrapped up, a future with some distinct odor.
from that day in november, i've found myself, over and over, hoping that i can forget that i'm alive and he's not.
before we drove back to austin, there was this terrible moment. horrific.
we had to ... well, his mom turned to me ... to pick out what he was going to wear, buried eternal and all that. it wasn't that i didn't know. i knew exactly, but it was that i had to do it at all.
she wanted something warm.
i gave her his red sox jersey, and his sox cap, and his elliot shirt to go underneath. i figured, that's what he would have... no .. that's what he did want. his boots. my ring on a chain around his neck. thick socks. and that's how he his in my head, comfortable and smirking.
you see, he has to be. he has to be comfortable, and he has to be smirking. he has to see the joke. why? because fuck'em if they can't take a joke.
he taught me that.
i live by that.
i have no other way to live.
and sure, i've asked myself those dispicable questions. i've gone over and over again in my head, what did we do wrong? could we have saved him? could we?
saturday, we went to chicago, i think. it was mostly a blue blur. i'm told that it was strangely warm there for november. i'm told that it was good to see everyone again.
we arrived at the service.
it all happened.
i've got this little piece of folded paper that tells me so. it has his name on it. occasionally, i open it. i guess to make sure that he's really gone.
it's been over a year and a half since my boy's been gone. since colors went cold. since i decided that a lot of things are bullshit. since that part of me that a lot of people loved died with him.
instead of a fat bloke on my lawn, there's a cross and a mound of dirt screaming love.
i guess you could hope that maybe i found my faith again, or that i realized how short life is. maybe you hope that i'll find love again, resurrected and clean. maybe you're the type of person that says, "it'll just take time." maybe you know better. maybe you don't understand why i don't just get over it. maybe you understand perfectly. i guess you could hope that i live each day to its fullest.
i don't.
the majority of my days since november sixth two thousand two have been spent getting ink on my fingers while i write over and over again, "where are you? i love you." it's a lot of time in my room, alone. i like it that way. it means that i don't have to explain myself or what happened. it means that i don't have to meet people. and i don't have to tell those people that i wish they could have met him.
i'm no strong girl. i don't have a lot of heart left. most people don't really like me, you know. and it sounds silly, but he really made me worth it. i'll go to my own grave with that one.
i still have a lot of the same friends, and i've met some new ones. i'm pretty sure that none of them like hearing about it anymore.
but i know that if he were here, he'd pretty much think that it all went to shit without him.
you see, what happened was, i met this boy once, you know the kind that changes everything, and he taught me about the good fight. i taught him how to paint. he taught me that when things are just as they seem, that's when you need to make a run for it. i taught him how to balance his checkbook.
you see, what happened was, i met this boy once, and he taught me that i should never be ashamed, that writing is a way of life, that love was the only fucking thing worth it and that a life without passion was nothing short of death.
i wish you could have met him.
and so as i work on my fourth or fifth pack of cigarettes and my sixth or seventh maker's mark, at least you know that story behind one of the graves in the outskirts of chicago.
our lives are small, but not to everyone.
the least we can do is be honest about it.
and fuck'em if they can't take a joke.
"for a minute there, i was amazing." -- seth daniel poticha.
