Dear Sean

One

I love you so much, Sean.

            Maybe one day I’ll have the courage to read you this story, maybe it’ll take me so long that you’ll be too old to even ask me for bedtime stories. This is the story of Daddy and Uncle Paul.

            You know that Mummy doesn’t like you calling him Uncle Paul—well Sean, you call him whatever you like. Though I don’t call him that either, I just call him Paul.

            As you might know, Uncle Paul and I met when we were young—he was fifteen and I was seventeen. In ten years you’ll be fifteen too, and though that may seem like a long time, I’m sure you’ll look back and wonder where all the time went.

            My time went too quickly. One minute I was just meeting Uncle Paul, and the next we were so angry, so angry that now we barely see each other. It’s a shame, Sean. Paul is a lovely person.

            When I met him he was wearing a white jacket and I was playing onstage. We were with a band—not the band I was in with Uncle Paul, but a different one. When I saw him, I knew he was special like when you were born and I knew you were a very special boy.

            He was with my friend, Ivan. I’ve left so many people behind, now that I think of it. Never grow up Sean, it’s a bad idea.

            Damn, he looked good.

            I licked my lips as I roamed across his body, until the full weight of what I was doing hit me. No. Paul is a bloke. No, no, John.

            “John, this is Paul. I thought you two would get along,” Ivan said, but I wasn’t paying attention to Ivan anymore, I was just practically devouring Paul with my eyes, mentally ripping off that stupid white sports jacket, wanting to know what was underneath it, wanting to feel my way down his exposed neck.

            Paul stuck out his hand nervously, almost as if he could see the hungry look in my eyes. I must be randy, I told myself, to ogle everything that moves like this.

            “I play,” he grinned, and all the alternate meanings of that one delicious word lit up my mind. He gestured towards the guitar case he was carrying.

            “Give it a go, then,” I heard myself say. Acting nonchalantly had become second nature, no matter what the fuck was going on underneath.

            He played Twenty Flight Rock and I watched his mouth move and he sang the words, watched his fingers slide across the strings heard his voice mold perfectly to the American lilt of the original song.

            “Got a piano ‘round back,” I suggested. Paul hard a certain spark in his eyes and at that time I didn’t know or care what I was getting myself into.

            Uncle Paul and I played piano when we met, and I found him very interesting. I paid an extra lot of attention to him, and realized he was a very nice person. Things were only beginning then, but later I sent one of my friends to tell Paul that he should join my band.