Thinking back

"My words, they pour
Like children to the playground"
- Blue October

He would talk of the darkness as being evil. As if there were invisible demons controlling the universe once the sun went down. He would hypothesize about the smallest pieces of the smallest things, as if they mattered the most. And maybe to him, they did. Sometimes he had more paranoia than personality.

There's only so much I can remember and then I start to imagine the past differently. Just for the sake of having something to think about when thinking is all that's left. Like those few seconds when I was weightless. When gravity ceased to exist. The first time we really touched he pulled me into his arms. Made me fall so he could catch me. I didn't think about anything at all. Just fell weightlessly into the safety of him and let the change occur.

Altered instantly from a girl who'd never known to a woman who would never forget.

What it was like

It’s possible I spent too many hours drinking back the years. Knowing no other way. Painting pictures of leopards so I could steal their spots. A lonely child with a faulty compass, searching for the forest, but never the trees.

All flames are not the same. It depends on what you’re burning. But the heat is consistent in its anxiousness. Tiny stones skipping across an infinite expanse. Thinking I’ll be able to find them again, but I never can.

Just save me some minutes. So I can have something to look forward too. Our conversations too casual to be satisfying. Forcing me to find intensity in all the wrong ways. To be homeless again. Writing my words with razor blades. Diaries of dead memories. I know you listen, but you never seem to hear me.

More than ever

I’ve been listening to this radio station from New York City. I really miss NYC. I can’t remember the last time I was there. I’m not a city person, but here’s something about that city. Like running into an old friend you haven’t seen in years. I suspect I may have lived there in a past life. Maybe I grew up there, died there. Maybe I never left there. Because I had no desire to. Because it was home. And now it’s just a place I visit. And miss.

Missing someone or someplace is a strange feeling. Sometimes it’s a good feeling. And it makes you feel all warm inside. Sometimes it’s a bad feeling that makes you shiver and stomp your feet and wrap your arms around yourself. Because no one else is going to. No one that matters. No one that you miss.

Sometimes a certain place or person will remind you of another place or person. And for a moment, you’re actually there. You’re actually with them. But then something makes you snap out of it. Like a slap or a bang. Something tells you this isn’t real. And then you’re back to missing, you're back to shivering, more than ever.

I really miss him. I guess I always will. I wish there was a radio station that could trick my brain into believing. That we could run into each other on a sidewalk. So I could see him smile. Hear him laugh. That half grin that said everything was going to be alright. I wish he was in a place I could visit.

But he’s not. And so I do the best I can with memories and old photos and find little reminders of him in other people. Until I feel that slap. Or hear that bang. And something tells me this isn’t real. And then I’m back to missing him. More than ever.

I remember

Sometimes I forget. That there was a time when it wasn’t like this. That there was a time when I was whole. That half of me wasn’t ashes that are probably sitting on a shelf somewhere. Never picked up because it just hurt too much.

Sometimes I forget. That there was a time when I thought it would always be like this. The two of us like puzzle pieces. Fitting so perfectly that few people knew. That apart we were nothing. But pieces.

Sometimes I forget. That I can never forget.

Age 12

She was the nicest person I’d ever met. Still is. She cared about children, people. She just wanted to help. She wanted to make the world a better place and she did. For me. For a lot of kids.

Her name was Mrs. Safford. I think her first name was Jean. I’ve tried to find her, but that was so many years ago. She was a tiny woman. She wore tiny shoes and her heels clicked as she walked. A staccato beat which is funny, because there was nothing staccato about her. Except her shoes.

She was always smiling. It was a real smile. There was nothing fake about her. Her smile would warm the room. Her smile would warm my heart, which was just about impossible back then.

Sometimes, when it seems like there is nothing but darkness in the world, I think back to a time when it was even darker. A time when I was more alone than I’d ever been. A time when I could have disappeared and never come back, had it not been for Mrs. Safford.