Our First Day
There are a lifetime of memories, floating in the back of my mind. So many smiles, laughs, even tears. It's been years now since you've been gone, but we had your whole life together, memories of training, running, even the way the snow would clump up in your hair until you could barely walk anymore, but what I remember most of all is the first time we met.
My Best Boy
I've been thinking a lot about words and the feeling that they're not enough. They're not ever enough. They fill a void, a space; they fill up a page until slowly, the blank white becomes dotted with black shapes and scribbles. Like a beautiful parasite growing and taking over. They can have meaning and yet never fully describe the sensation or thought. They can't ever impart an epiphany or tell you just what sunshine looks like. They can be used for everything and nothing. They can just be. And yet they spill, fill, form, and move. Words are there. And mine are here for you. So no, I don't think I can quite explain my heart or my love or my fear for you. I can use every word I know and even make up a few of I have to, but dearheart, they will never be enough for you. No matter what happens, I simply need you to know the most important, most complex thing in the universe: I love you.
They never tell you that it starts with a sliver. Just a tiny little shard and it’s in. Insidious. Quiet. Creeping through your veins. You grow up hearing the stories, meant to scare children into behaving, the proverbial boogeyman given one specific shape. A tale of a curse told so long ago that it became legend. A whisper. A fairy tale. But the truth’s been warped with the years of the telling. It doesn’t happen how they say - one casting and your fate is sealed. No. It starts with just a little sliver, a thought, a fear, a failure. A changing. And then it grows.
They look like pictures Scattered on the floor But be wary Pictures have a way of cutting deep Leaving scars I have this recurring nightmare where I'm going about a normal day, maybe I'm running errands, maybe I'm picking up a to-go order for dinner, and I look up and see the local news on one of the tv screens. Normally I don't pay attention to it. I don't like the news, would never choose to watch it, but this one keep my attention, steals my breath and won't give it back. Whatever I'm holding drops from my hands as the words scrolling across the screen sink in. "Breaking News: Young, White Male Found Shot In Charlotte Back Streets." And suddenly the flashing lights take on meaning, as does the yellow crime scene tape and the form in the middle of all the moving bodies. It's you. Blonde hair matted with blood, eyes unseeing and unclosed, whatever terror you felt wiped away as your brain shut down and your heart ceased beating. But it's you. Those unseeing eyes still your blue, hair tousled and stained red from your blood, but still your course dirty blond hair. You're sprawled on the street like you were running when you fell and the black cement still shines and reflects the flashing red and blue lights from the rain that fell only hours before. It all sinks in, lays heavy on my heart, as the groceries or food or whatever I'm holding crashes to the floor. It had been a normal day. Just a normal day. And then it wasn't. The crash wakes me up every time. Brings me back to reality and I realize the truth in all its horror: that day could still happen.
I'm staring at this computer with a keyboard filled with all the letters of the alphabet, numbers, figures, signs, and punctuation marks. Countless ways to express my heart, and I can't find the words. I have an endless supply before me and nothing to say. I've tried stories, poems, letters, but nothing works. What words could adequately express what I'm feeling? I'm not sure I know it myself. And maybe that's the problem. It's not that I can't put words to it, but I'm not sure what medium is best to truly describe it and capture its essence.
He sat down by her side, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, the beeping of machines filling his ears. For the first time in two months he wished he weren’t here. He wished this hadn’t fallen to him. He wished this hadn’t happened to her. He wished a lot of things. But her father had already said his goodbyes, her mother standing by her bedside, tears streaming down her face. Ian shook his head and pushed yesterday from his mind. He took in the white walls of the hospital room, trying to grasp some sense of serenity. All those years wasted and now it comes to this. Ian looked back down to his partner. Pseudo-partner. Well, he was her pseudo-partner. A writer shadowing a homicide detective for research and she was the one who got hurt. Ian suddenly remembered the last time they were in the hospital together. It was a couple years ago. She had broken her ankle chasing after a suspect.