Ocean-Deep Joy

I never noticed how nice the air in autumn was, or how many streaks of gold cut through my brown hair. But I do now, and I guess he does too. I should drink tea more slowly and actually read instead of skim, maybe, maybe not, that'd be hard, but I should do that. Take things at a gentler pace. Like this walk.

...

God, that was nice, he tasted like stolen cider and gas station tacos. And he was so sweet when he touched me. God, I could have held him and run my hands through his hair all night. I should have done that. Why didn't I? Oh, right, that. The pesky little draft that'll take him to the other side of the world after tomorrow. And offer a likely death to his brief little light. It's alright, the moment was enough. Just the girl without her flannel shirt and a boy halfway out the door. No point in lying with a soon-to-be-corpse.

I gotta stop thinking about that.

Anyone who says the forest is quiet has never been in one, there's birds and insects, dead leaves, broken twigs, and so forth. But it's better than listening to people, I'll give it that much.

I wonder why we only revere the sad things as high art? Why is every single one of the greatest films and operas and plays and masterpiece paintings just another depressing depiction of our greatest miseries, maladies, and mistakes? Why are only the most tragic artworks get to be called deep? Why are comedy and romance and joy considered fluff and mere entertainment for the masses? Personally, I've felt nothing that was deeper than the joy I felt when he held me and he fucked me. It was ocean-deep and mountain-pure. Maybe it's because not everyone gets to feel joy, so they wander around thinking only their sadness has meaning to it. I'm glad that's not me...at least not anymore.

Shit, it's getting dark out. It smells like smoke, that's strange. Whatever, I'm almost home anyway. Some housewife probably left her oven on too long, probably got some bastard toy dog yipping at her heels, they'll be fine. I should wash this coat when I get back, I don't remember when I last cleaned it. Whatever, there's more important things to worry about.

I should get him a card or something before he ships off. Maybe one of those silly hallmark cards with 'congratulations on turning 70' or 'congrats on the baby' and it'll be our little joke. Fuck, Alex, take something seriously for once. The man's probably gonna die might as well be sincere. Or would he like the joke more? Fuck, I don't know. Arrrghhh, don't focus on that. Just enjoy the moment, you both have those memories now, and there's nothing better than that.

The burning smell's getting worse. I can see a fire up there, holy shit it's on our street. Fuck, is that our house? No, no, no, no, no, FUCK. No! Mom! Dad! Shit, why aren't the words coming out of my mouth? Mom and dad are up ahead, good. I'm here now, I'm here, oh God, I'm here. Basil's coming out of the fire, good dog, come here boy.

God damn.

The whole house is up in flames, burning bright and breaking the sky. The smoke is filling my lungs and flooding the street. Why isn't the fire department here? Basil's wagging his tail, how is he so calm? I can't move. Why can't I move? Everyone's quiet it's just the fire crackling and it'll comsume everything soon enough. People should be screaming but they're just standing there. Basil's looking at me with those puppy dog eyes and his black fur's perfectly clean. How? Am I going crazy?

No, I'm going under. The fire's coming from me now, and sooner or later I'll just be ash. That's fine, my body's already dead. And I've lived a long life, longer than my dogs and longer than that boy. Poor thing should've dodged and become one of those west-coast washups. It's better than being dead. Why did I come back here? To this forgotten town and alone in the woods. There were bigger and better memories, my wedding, my kids, graduating, that sort of thing. There were more profound memories, the car crash, the hospital stays, and travelling. So why here, with some boy lost to the sands of time and a wood that's probably not around anymore, cut down by some great and terrible feat of American industry.

It's up to my eyes now. It's almost time to go, and I thought I was okay with leaving. But it still hurts, and I won't know why I came here to some stupid meandering memory. And I guess I'm supposed to be okay with it, not overthink the moment and just feel that ocean-deep joy you only get when you're young and too stupid to know better. But I want to know.

I don't get too, do I? It's too late. Do me a favor, take my ashes to the sea. And may I see you all again on the next walk.