events took place on 3.24.2014
terminal. finite. like time. but no one cared, because this was the beginning. this was the dialogue at the start. there wasn’t even a soundtrack - yet (there would be. this is my life we’re talking about, after all). i threw my arms around his neck. for someone i’d only met in 3D twice before, he was surprisingly familiar. but also surprisingly nonchalant. was his pulse hammering like a landing plane, trying to slow the fuck down before killing everyone on board? mine was. mine had been as soon as it felt the wheels hit the ground. well, i was on the ground. the same ground. in the same city. with the same zipcode. on the same square foot? my voice never rose above a normal decibel, but…
highway. … the entire car ride home (not initially, but by the end of the week, i’d unconsciously begun to refer to it as such - a wonderfully terrible sign), i wanted to scream. it’s a wonder i didn’t howl all the way from the airport to the desert doorstep. i played flume louder than i’d ever heard him and god, was it glorious.
house. it was desert red with a desert roof and a palm tree right next to the driveway. i wanted to hug that palm tree on more than one occasion but i wouldn’t have been able to wrap my arms around more than half. it grew as he grew, and every time i brushed its leaves i thought of the way they’d formed each delicate tendril as he developed into the world.
i miss that damn tree.
puppy. rugs was a cute little fucker, no lie, but bruno stole my heart the second i met him with his lovely dark eyes and his big dark paws and his beautiful dark face. i crouched, touched my nose to his nose, and he was following me within minutes.
mama. she was a little eccentric and very sweet and she felt like a mother, from the very beginning. and he was patient with her, the way we must all be when we toe that threshold between childhood and adulthood, the way we hope we all are when we realize that even as we move forward they go backward and need our help with the most rudimentary things. if the people you love don’t take a minute to help their parents learn how to use smartphones, they’re not worth loving. take that shit back.
room. his. quite obviously and singularly his. his xbox, his desk, his books, his chair, his closet, his DVDs, his flash figurines, his bed. it confronted me as soon as i swung open the door. it didn’t need to be comfortable, but it was. what a thoroughly unhelpful bonus.
i tried sandwiching my suitcase as unobtrusively as possible, but i still ended up tripping over my own shit all week. it didn’t matter. we spent most of the time in bed anyway.
flashback. the bad stuff is easy to talk about because it no longer matters. the good stuff? that still matters. i am twenty. that means i’m maybe a woman or something. whatever they call them past that point. but i’m the woman that the thirteen-year-old girl who said those desperately devoted words grew into. like the tiny palm tree by the door. i didn’t want to read her words yet. i was afraid they would still mean more than i could handle.
sleep. came too deceptively easy for all the twists and knots in my heart. but sometimes, your body wins. sometimes. thank goodness for that - if we left it up to our fragile minds, we’d be too permanently stricken to move. the bed sloped. i was vulnerable and embarrassed until i was too tired to be either. i tried to take comfort in hazy memories of an era that seemed too far removed to be reassuring. he found me beautiful once, i thought. with five days of luck, perhaps he still will.