As Of Now

Ezra

A recent assignment from class I wanted to share here. I've been writing a lot of micro memoirs lately- very therapeutic. The song linked above has no connection to this piece, it just brings me comfort.

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Writing and talking seem to go hand in hand. I like to talk, but I do it with awkward murmurs. Writing tends to come easy, and he's always encouraged it. He likes to talk, and he talks a lot. That, I am thankful for. He carries honesty upon his shoulders; it never leaves, and he doesn't take it off. I don't think he can; it's a part of his physical form. Never unwelcome is his voice, and not overbearing. Maybe it's because he is older, more experienced with the world, much more than I am.

He would tell me of times when he would drive across the states with a cape of freedom attached to him. He'd tell me about the dry states, how the desert felt with the windows rolled down in whatever car he had. How he ended up settling down in a rainy state, I haven't discovered yet.

He spoke of California, different than the one I experienced traveling home. An excitement erupting from his throat as I nodded along to his voice and tried to picture it in my head. Then home, I knew what that looked like. With its tall trees, and rain being pushed around by the wind. The ocean-dirty and cold. Green of the earth enveloping you wholly.

Of course, not every conversation we had was light. I think I initiated that. Not sure what it was exactly, but he poked at my head while the class emptied and handed me a pen and notebook with a pat to my arm. He's just like that.

It had been maybe two years since I last saw him in person- in his classroom, going through his bookshelves. He packed them in boxes, and I would choose what stayed. He let me take an armful home with me, he said I could take them all, but I didn't have the room or the strength to carry them home on the bus.

In June, there he was, in a world he told me of; modeling and photography. I saw him alongside the photographer, making conversation with other models and folks that were participating. I don't know a lot about this, posing and dressing fancy. I was a stranger to what he loved.

As I stood upon the podium that once held a statue, with someone else's bracelets and necklaces upon my being, I felt his joy, even in his absence. And though we parted with tears and promises of "see you again", it still felt like a goodbye.

The last time I saw his face was December, in an article; His hair was cut with blonde highlights; he had the same green gauges in his ears and the same face of someone at peace with themselves. He didn't look old, he never did. He didn't look tired, or professional. He just looked like him.

My hair has grown, no more blonde at the ends. I'm still the same height. I've gained weight.

I emailed him and told him about a short piece I had written. I let him read it for himself. He was proud, always has been.

He's in the process of narrating an audio book. I'm excited.