All in My Backyard

Learning he was gone and would never be back
The heat of piss and shame as I realize I am not one of the boys
A deep hole of mud
My first love, a dog
Waiting impatiently for my grandmother’s artichokes to grow
Blood stains on the corner of a stucco wall, four of his fingernails lost in the grass
A kiss from my neighbor and then days later one from his sister as well
Hours and hours and hours of hide and seek
Minature worlds of moist dirt and the sharp cool green of uncut grass
Skinned knees, stubbed toes, bloody lips and black eyes
Holding hands after dark, the whole summer ahead, a promise

Tripping

If he takes the blue one in the morning, night comes earlier than usual and shapes in the shadows talk him out of doing things he wants to do.  He knows he'll spend the rest of the day on a raft in the ocean, smelling salt and damp rope.

If he takes the small round one he feels colors in his fingertips and no longer fears death. What they don't tell him is that he'll also become so small that people will bump into him, trip over him and swat him out of the way. He will become a buzzing fly.

Mixing an orange one and a yellow one lets him feel normal for exactly two hours, which he actually hates, but does sometimes anyways, to remind himself what a tight box it is and how, even though he fits, he does not feel comfortable.  When the two hours are over, he is happy to feel like dying again, for a moment.

The amber liquid feels like drinking a glass of milk but burns when it hits his stomach. The fire travels through his gut and comes back around, a slithering snake, wraps itself around his heart and squeezes. He smiles, waiting for the incessant beating to stop, once and for all.

Eyes closed, his hand hovers over the bottles, the potions, the portals they've given him. Where will it land today, and where will he go from here?

The Note

They found the note tucked in his wallet, but I was too afraid to ask where they found his wallet. 

Had it stayed safely nestled in his back pocket? Or had he taken it out first, lain it on a table or a chair, wanting to put things in order? 

I wanted to see the note, to feel it, trace my fingers along the subtle groove where the pen touched the paper, where his hand touched the pen, but I was too embarrassed to ask for it, afraid they would think me macabre, or worse yet, that I didn’t believe them that he had written it.

He was right handed, and he would have used the same hand to hold the gun that he used to write the note.
Just six words; “I love you. Please forgive me.” 

I’ll never admit it, but I think he got off too easy.

My Favorite Place

Wind, paper, light, small sharp body heating the cool cotton cocoon of us. 
Alone together with the words.