boys & flowers

iris (rainbows & hope)

Some days are harder than others, writing about this. Most of the time, I stay in my room, light a candle, then scribble away on graphing paper. My therapist has given me ballpoint pens because pencils are slow and I can't write fast enough to catch up with my thoughts. Half the writing is in small cursive, the other half is large, taking up several boxes with shaking lines.

Other times I need to be sitting out in the kitchen (right now I'm watching Cartman make pudding) because I'll get too far up in my own head and need someone to ground me.

When I'm done, I can do what I want with this story.

Burning it was a suggestion. That way I've put my experience out in the universe, can forget it all and start over, watching the words ash away, smoke into the cosmos forever.

Must I burn it all away? Do I have to condemn good with bad? There are quiet moments I want so much to squirrel away for myself: in the bloom of the afternoon when our hearts were at their fullest and our hands were always finding ways to touch and all I wanted to do was kiss his throat, he drifted down the side of my face like a beautiful ghost, whispering, "I want to hold you so badly right now."

I want to steal the memory and replay it until I die, live inside it like a snowglobe that never breaks and nothing else has ever happened.

Another option is to bury it. My qualm is this: say someone else found it, sealed airtight, 50 years from now? It won't be like finding the cave paintings in France or the letters of David Foster Wallace. I'm not important. All they will read is a rambling account of two people who fit so right yet got everything so wrong and wonder where this now old man named Kyle is. If I make it that long.

Do I burn or bury? Burn or bury...

I feel like I may cry now and I'll be damned if I let anyone see dried tear stains and feathered ink.

...

The night I held Bebe for the last time, I cried into her back. She couldn't see me, couldn't hear me, but felt tears on her shoulder blade and the tip of my nose grow warm. When I saw her face again, I could see she'd been crying too.

Normally, she would have spent the night, but we decided it was best if she went home and so we wouldn't have to wake up next to each other and cry more.

I carried her on my back, outside to her car, hugged her, watched red tail lights shrink down the street and out of sight around the corner. We didn't see each other for two months after that.

That first Saturday off in months, I slept in until noon and woke up from dreams about Bebe telling me she actually hated me, wanted to kill me, wanted to reach in through my mouth, and tear out my veins.

Someone was mowing their lawn. Sunshine slanted across my desk. The creaking ceiling fan spun slowly, and I shook myself from the hazy after-dream, pulled the blankets taut just under my eyes. With a weak hand, I reached over for the phone.

A text from Tweek: "Some guy walked in first thing this morning, stopped to look at me, and said 'you're not Kyle'."

Me: "They'll get used to you, don't worry. They did the same thing to me when I switched to mornings."

Then, a text from Wendy: "I have today off. Do you wanna go do something? Lol I need to not do housework."

It was from several hours ago.

I responded: "Sorry, I just woke up. Give me like 20 minutes but yeah sure."

Wendy: "I came with Stan to the shop so I'm downstairs. Damn, how late did you stay up?"