May 7, 2018 (or
somewhere thereabouts)
Beginnings
The pieces resemble leaves of a
windy fall afternoon. The pile looks right, the mouth of the bag waiting, but
when scooped they scatter, pushed to the neighbor’s lawn, the gutter, the air.
I keep
wanting to target 2002 even though that’s not right. Maybe it’s because that’s
when we met; maybe it’s because Dad died that year. His time ended on the cold
floor of a hospital room, a bruise on the brain his ultimate undoing after the
conclusion of a weeks-long bender brought him to the one place he wasn’t
supposed to go: home.
Now I fear,
among many other things, that I have seen myself take my first step into
becoming George Webber.
Regardless…we
didn’t get together until the following spring, and everything, like the
arrival of a new season, seemed so exciting. Our families bubbled, observed.
Our introductions to friends teemed with glee.
We lived a
party life that spring and summer of 2003, some combination of envy, happiness,
and annoyance in the eyes and minds of our co-workers. We logged significant
poolside time, shared beds, and closed down bars. By fall we were never apart,
having tucked-in conversations about our lives ahead. And the following
February I moved out of my buddy’s house and into my own place, a joint she
helped me find, a pad her father came with us to inspect. I’d received an
acceptance letter from my graduate school of choice; hers had come in the form
of rejection.
