me.
Believed in me.
Like always.
We were like those twins, Zach and me. As close.
He was my hero, my best friend. Always believing, always talking, always there.
Zacheus.
Unlike my mother now.
Unlike my father.
My Zach always believed in me.
Here’s the thing about Jesus’s broken heart.
How much did it hurt?
Sometimes
Sometimes, I’m sure I know.
Somehow, I can’t believe it, I fall asleep on Zach’s grave.
And I dream.
In this dream Mom’s there. And it’s my old mom. She’s smiling, so that’s how I know it’s the old her. “I love you, London,” she says. I hear her voice. See her reach to pet me. Her hand never connects to my face, though I wait for her touch. Stand there. Wait.
I wake up, roll onto my back, still waiting for that touch from my mom. The marshmallow clouds have gone dark.
Stormy.
It can’t be that late, can it? Where’s the sun?
I’m hungry.
“And lucky,” I say to Zach, “that fire ants didn’t find me here and eat me up.”
“You okay?”
I scream, sit, go dizzy.
It’s the groundskeeper. An older guy, dark hair going gray.
“Sorry,” he says. He keeps his distance. “I knew you were alive. Saw that you were breathing. You see everything out here. You okay?”
I nod. “I think so.” I clear my throat. “I’ll go.”
“Stay as long as you like,” he says. “You’re safe here.”
He gets into an old blue truck that probably used to be the color of the sky.
Drives off with a tilt of his head to me.
He might be an angel. I don’t know. He might.
I have a few dollars in my pocket, but I quit my cell phone a long time ago. Just let it die in my bedside table drawer. I couldn’t face all the text messages, the calls, the are-you-okays?
(No! No, I wasn’t okay! Got it? I WAS NOT OKAY.)
My angel’s “You okay?” is different.
I close my eyes.
Am I getting a little better? Healing a little? Aching less?
I stand, look back at the grass to see if there is a print of my body `(there is), and walk on out of the cemetery, checking all the while for the groundskeeper, who I don’t see again.
So, not too far away is a 7-Eleven.
In the bathroom I see I have grass-mark dents all over one side of my face. My mascara’s smeared. Did I cry in my sleep? I have cried while sleeping plenty of times.
Awakened with tears streaming down my face.
I use a paper towel and brush at my teeth. I would try the soap but decide against it because it’s bar soap and someone has left black scum on what used to be a white bar.
“Don’t be ridikerus.” I can almost hear Zach say the words. He always said that. “Don’t be ridikerus. You don’t brush your teeth with soap, no matter how your mouth tastes, London.”
Does he say ridikerus still?
Does Zach say it to God? To Jesus? To someone else but not me anymore?
I leave the bathroom, which I can all the sudden really smell, and walk into the store. There are a few customers, including a grandma-type lady who shepherds around two little kids, a boy and a girl, who ask in tiny voices for this treat or that.
I’ve not eaten all day and I realize I’m hungry. Outside,the sky turns darker and the wind picks up. The clouds race away from the beach. A bit of salt smell from the ocean tries to sweep away the odor of strong coffee and hot dogs when someone opens the door, but the food smells win out.
So I buy an all-beef Big Bite Hot Dog. Just looking at the crinkly thing on the rolling grill makes my mouth water, and after I pop the wiener into a bun, I load on the ketchup, mayonnaise, and relish. I get a fountain Coke, too, adding lots and lots of vanilla, making sure I save some change, because I don’t want to walk all the way home. Gonna have to call someone for a ride. I’ve walked so far I feel like I need a hip replacement.
When I step outside, a gust of wind blows garbage across the parking lot. I am so hungry, I’m shaking.
Believed in me.
Like always.
We were like those twins, Zach and me. As close.
He was my hero, my best friend. Always believing, always talking, always there.
Zacheus.
Unlike my mother now.
Unlike my father.
My Zach always believed in me.
Here’s the thing about Jesus’s broken heart.
How much did it hurt?
Sometimes
Sometimes, I’m sure I know.
Somehow, I can’t believe it, I fall asleep on Zach’s grave.
And I dream.
In this dream Mom’s there. And it’s my old mom. She’s smiling, so that’s how I know it’s the old her. “I love you, London,” she says. I hear her voice. See her reach to pet me. Her hand never connects to my face, though I wait for her touch. Stand there. Wait.
I wake up, roll onto my back, still waiting for that touch from my mom. The marshmallow clouds have gone dark.
Stormy.
It can’t be that late, can it? Where’s the sun?
I’m hungry.
“And lucky,” I say to Zach, “that fire ants didn’t find me here and eat me up.”
“You okay?”
I scream, sit, go dizzy.
It’s the groundskeeper. An older guy, dark hair going gray.
“Sorry,” he says. He keeps his distance. “I knew you were alive. Saw that you were breathing. You see everything out here. You okay?”
I nod. “I think so.” I clear my throat. “I’ll go.”
“Stay as long as you like,” he says. “You’re safe here.”
He gets into an old blue truck that probably used to be the color of the sky.
Drives off with a tilt of his head to me.
He might be an angel. I don’t know. He might.
I have a few dollars in my pocket, but I quit my cell phone a long time ago. Just let it die in my bedside table drawer. I couldn’t face all the text messages, the calls, the are-you-okays?
(No! No, I wasn’t okay! Got it? I WAS NOT OKAY.)
My angel’s “You okay?” is different.
I close my eyes.
Am I getting a little better? Healing a little? Aching less?
I stand, look back at the grass to see if there is a print of my body `(there is), and walk on out of the cemetery, checking all the while for the groundskeeper, who I don’t see again.
So, not too far away is a 7-Eleven.
In the bathroom I see I have grass-mark dents all over one side of my face. My mascara’s smeared. Did I cry in my sleep? I have cried while sleeping plenty of times.
Awakened with tears streaming down my face.
I use a paper towel and brush at my teeth. I would try the soap but decide against it because it’s bar soap and someone has left black scum on what used to be a white bar.
“Don’t be ridikerus.” I can almost hear Zach say the words. He always said that. “Don’t be ridikerus. You don’t brush your teeth with soap, no matter how your mouth tastes, London.”
Does he say ridikerus still?
Does Zach say it to God? To Jesus? To someone else but not me anymore?
I leave the bathroom, which I can all the sudden really smell, and walk into the store. There are a few customers, including a grandma-type lady who shepherds around two little kids, a boy and a girl, who ask in tiny voices for this treat or that.
I’ve not eaten all day and I realize I’m hungry. Outside,the sky turns darker and the wind picks up. The clouds race away from the beach. A bit of salt smell from the ocean tries to sweep away the odor of strong coffee and hot dogs when someone opens the door, but the food smells win out.
So I buy an all-beef Big Bite Hot Dog. Just looking at the crinkly thing on the rolling grill makes my mouth water, and after I pop the wiener into a bun, I load on the ketchup, mayonnaise, and relish. I get a fountain Coke, too, adding lots and lots of vanilla, making sure I save some change, because I don’t want to walk all the way home. Gonna have to call someone for a ride. I’ve walked so far I feel like I need a hip replacement.
When I step outside, a gust of wind blows garbage across the parking lot. I am so hungry, I’m shaking.
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