As I headed that way, I looked at the ground, not the branches or the sky. That afternoon, I decided to cut through the woods on my way home. There are things you decide and there are decisions you don’t even know you are making. And like all other normal days, I made it through to the other end. I pretended like it was a normal day without you there. I started to think it was like a surprise party, only they weren’t telling either of us. I wanted to tell people at school that it was your birthday but I didn’t want to get their reaction when I brought it up. That day was your birthday in my head, but it wasn’t really your birthday anywhere else. But that’s the thing about me: The frequencies don’t divide. They are always there if if if if and I should only be able to tune in to them if I’m on the right frequency. I can’t stop looking, even when I want to have to stop. And while I do that, I miss other things. It’s a trap.īefore anything else happened, there was me in bed, thinking of who you used to be. The pursuit of happiness makes us deeply unhappy. Wasn’t it? At the end, you pointed to me and said something. Should I have paid closer attention? Written them down? No, it was a good day. We ended up spending the afternoon walking around, pointing at things and labeling them anything or something. An IOU for two hours of starwatching: something. A piece of jewelry made by hand: something. A piece of jewelry bought at a department store: anything. That whole week, we started to divide things into those two categories: anything or something. And I told you I wasn’t planning on giving you anything I was planning on giving you something. I asked you what you wanted and you said you didn’t want anything. You went out with Jack at night, but I at least had you for the afternoon. This was when you could ask me for something, I could give it to you, and the world would be right.Īnd then there was last year. This was before happiness became so complicated. I’m not sure you got that part, not until I told you. Then I rigged your locker with pulleys, so when you opened it, all the objects rose. A novel called Rose Sees Red, a biography of Gypsy Rose Lee, a mix of songs by bands called Blue Roses, the Stone Roses, White Rose Movement. I asked you what you wanted and you said roses, and then you said, “But not the flowers.” So I spent weeks gathering presents: a polished piece of rose quartz, White Rose tea, a ceramic tile I’d bought at the White House in fourth grade featuring the Rose Garden. When I woke up, I dreamed thought about other birthdays.
The first one after you left vanished were gone.
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