Secrets in the Fall

I remember the first snowfall, how I stuck my tongue out to catch the cold. The cold... I will never forget the coldness of your hands. It was just an accident with no deeper meaning. I hated myself for thinking, what a dumb way to die. My cousin, who had blue hair since before I could talk and pierced his lips before punk rock made it cool. You rode your skateboard everywhere, smoked weed and drank Forty’s. God, I wish I could have talked to your longer. We had all thought the lung cancer would have killed you first, but cigarettes do not seem so bad anymore especially when you smoked them since you were twelve and would have probably still be smoking them today. Because the cigarettes did not kill you, neither did the alcohol nor weed. None of your bad habits did you in like we used to say, no your death was simple, too simple for someone as rad as you were.

Anyways it was there holding your cold hands for the last time that I saw it, your little black book of songs you never got the chance to sing. No one noticed it but me, because no one knew about your secret passion, music. I probably would not have known either, but we liked the same songs and one day you gave me a paper to read. I swore Gerard Way wrote those lyrics himself. Your words, your thoughts, were did they all go when you died?

I know I shouldn’t have done it, that maybe you might have wanted to be buried with it but I could not resist. I took the little black book off the empty hospital chair. No one even noticed it, and I still do not know how it go there. I slipped the book into my bag and carried it with me everywhere. Of course, I never read what you wrote, that felt a little too invasive. It just felt nice to know that some part of you survived.

When we go the news of the accident, we were told that if you were to live you would most likely be in a wheel chair all of your life. No more smoking, no more skating and no more racing on the side. Maybe you would have given me your motorcycle or maybe you would have smashed it up to try and forget about all the things you could no longer do. Your motorcycle, I just realized I did not know what had happened to it. I do not remember anyone taking it or even talking about it. Wow, no mention of your little black book or motorcycle it was like no one knew you, only me.

I decided to check out your old backyard that day after work to see if there was any chance it would still be there. All throughout work that motorcycle stayed in my mind, someone had to have taken it right? Maybe I was too consumed with my emotions to recall who you left it to. Then the will reading came back into my mind, a memory I did not like to repeat. Why do we feel such ownership over the dead? We argue over their things left behind and even worse over the things they did not want to leave to others. Is everything in this world fueled by materialism, especially a will?

No one even expected you to have a will, thank god that you did even though it puzzled me why. I mean you weren’t the healthiest person I know; I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat a fruit before but still you were doing just fine. You were young, just starting to figure things out.

I did not even notice my shift was coming to an end until my managed passed by and said, “See you tomorrow.” I ran into my car and drove to your old house, I did not need google maps, the heart gives better directions. I stayed inside my car for a little just lost in memories of the last time I saw you. We were singing that OTEP song we liked about a mother who sold her daughter away. I have not listened to them since you died. Some words should be unwritten, some memories should be sunk away. I like the empty feeling of the darkness, I would rather that than this wetness rolling down my cheeks.

I finally get out the car and pass the for-sale sign on your house as I head into the backyard. Your old basketball hoop is still there, but someone seemed to have moved some things out. I do not see your grill or those dead plants you never seem able to get rid of. Then it came into my mind, what would happen if someone bought your place? I have not been here since way before you died but even in a grave, I still felt like this was yours. Like if I walked inside there would still be scratches left from the cats or chipped paint from knocking your skateboard into all the corners when you suddenly decided that it could be an indoor activity.

Or it would just be empty, the new coat of paint would cover all the history that house once had. I never went in much before but still even those seldom visited old stains should never be erased.

I stopped and tried to focus on what I came here for, the stupid thought that while all else faded away your motorcycle would still be here. I peeked into the garage and of course there was nothing there. Death had come and taken all that once remained, like it typically does. I knew I could not stay here for much longer because what I was doing is illegal and could get me in trouble. I do not know why they never locked the gates; this was not a great neighborhood after all.

I could not leave though, I had to look for something. Grief makes us see too much even with all the lights off and the sun going down in the sky. Still, I searched for a memory only I did not forget about. There was a little paper on the floor, a little check with your sloppy scribble. I went back out and looked around, the leaves were still falling off the trees, the wind was getting chiller, everything the same, nothing different. The weather still brings about the same changes, year after year. But so much was different now. A check… why would you leave a check in some random spot of garage. I went back and checked the amount, $20,000.

Suddenly, I had a plan, something to do, something to look forward too. I knew what I was going to do with that check, and it was right in front of me. Your house would never find a new owner, the paint with all its marks would stay the same. And here where all else has been given away, your ghost can stay.