The rainy Monday we met, I walked in, drenched
and you gave me a towel and your shirt. I didn't know
what I wanted, so we sat down and talked about it.
Talked about art plays, music, food. You bought me
a coffee and pizza and asked me what I was doing
in your small town. That fall you took me everywhere.
On foliage trains, bowling, introduce me to your friends.
You didn't make a big deal about it when I sat next to you
in the circle but didn't take a hit. I thought this is what
it feels like to be loved. Protected, maybe slightly adored.
You were the kind of artist who wanted to make other people
happy, a rarity. A helping artist. You weren't at home in your
own discomfort. An exile of your own body, you were beautiful
like the boyfriends in teenage dramas are beautiful. Surrounded
by and oblivious to your own beauty. Even your name, Joshua,
was a reminder of what sensuality could be. Was it any wonder
you married young and had a baby, a little girl. I think of her,
missing you, the absence of your body like a charcoal contour
drawing, never letting up. Even my teenage heart beat faster
when you walked into a room, curls first, face like a dart board,
anyone with a pulse would aim for. I wanted to stay with you.
You told me not to put down roots, to go back home and finish
school. I asked why business was slow, you said it wasn't unusual
—offseason in a tourist town. When you’d drop me home, you
made sure I got inside before you turned around. I knew I'd be gone
by summer, but figured I'd have a place to stay next time I came
to town. On my birthday you gave me a T shirt from the shop
and offered me a free tattoo. I said you can't afford to do that. I should
have just said, Thank you. I should have stayed and spent time with you.
Instead, I went home and did what Pisces do. Obsessed about the ones
who do not love me, about how long since it's been since I spoke
to my mom. A week went by so quickly, when I opened the paper and
saw your name beneath the photo of the tattoo parlour where you
locked up one last time before shooting yourself in the mouth.
A symbolism I can't yet unpack. We spent so many of your last days
together but in the end I was no one. Not your wife. Not your child.
Not your sister. I left that tourist town a couple months later. It's been
years and years since we shared a soda or anything and it still feels too soon
to go back.
About the Creator
Omotara James
Omotara James is the author of “Song of My Softening,” from Alice James Books. A multidisciplinary artist, she creates as a means to preserve joy, confront the past and free herself of it.
Follow @omotarajames & inquire at omotarajames.com
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