polaroids | awsten knight

polaroid fourteen

The fourteenth polaroid was taken at your house.

You had started chemotherapy a few weeks ago and felt comfortable telling me what it's like. When they needed to do a test, which was about every two to six weeks, you would go in with Otto. They would stick an IV needle into your veins and give the chemo that way. You would also have to give a blood sample so they could see how everything was going.

Along with taking chemo, your hair starts falling out. You called me right after you showered and saw clumps of hair falling out. When you told me, I felt my heart fall in two. There wasn't anything like the way you loved to customize your hair.

The pain in your voice made me have to do something. The day after, I went into town to see if there were any wig shops. There had to be a compromise for you losing your hair. I couldn't just let you have no way to express yourself through your hair. I ended up finding the perfect wig and planned on giving it to you after we shaved your head.

That's what we were doing when I was to come over to sleepover. You wanted me to shave your head, both because you knew you'd make a mess and that you wanted me to have the time of my life shaving you bald.

I biked down, not wanting to bother my parents. I brought along the wig by keeping it in a box and placing in it the basket. It couldn't fit all the way in, so I had to keep a hold of it the entire way down to your house.

Of course, you had to ask what was in the box. I refused to show you the wig until afterwards.

We went straight to your room and your guitar was laying on your bed. Next to your guitar was a CD, lying face down. I was convinced it was just one of your favourite band's albums, so I didn't interact with it. You put away the guitar and then took the CD in your hands.

That CD, you gave to me. "We made a few songs." You saw my confusion at the word we. "Otto, Geoff, and I all got together and put music to the lyrics I wrote."

"Holy shit..." I breathed, looking at the CD like it was my first born child. "Can I listen to them now?"

"The tracks are on my laptop, so you can just put on headphones and listen." I sat down in your chair, pulling up the albums with the same name as the one on the CD; Airplane Conversations.

While I was listening to each song, you were sitting on the bed, looking at my expression through the reflection of the laptop screen. It's an understatement to say they were beautiful. Then, I remembered you wrote some of these for me and I lost it. Tears ran down my cheeks, dropping on my lap.

You leaned forward. "Are you okay?" I nodded. This meant so much to me. Both that you were starting up your dream to be a musician and that these songs were for me.

By the end of this five-track EP, I held my head in my hands, crying my eyes out. That should've been seen as an accomplishment for you, but you asked me, "Are you sure you're okay?"

I got up from the chair and collapsed on the bed, draping my arm around your stomach. "I love you," I muttered into the pillow. I knew deep down you doubted I loved you, but I want you to know that I never did stop loving you.

We sat on your bed, cuddled up next to each other, talking about anything. From how our days were to our opinions on life after death, we found anything to say. My leg rested on top of yours, hugging you close to me.

Your hand laid on my thigh, which gave me goosebumps. Nothing made me feel the way that you did. Tracing circles, you sat there as I talked about an experience I went through when I was seven. By the end of it, you asked if we could shave your head.

"Are you sure?" I asked as you sat crossed-legged in the bathtub with no shirt on. The electric razor in my right hand, a mirror in the other. You nodded and I went ahead, running the razor through the back of your head.