I Am Sure (I'll Be Sure)
You tell yourself, "Close your eyes."
There is a street with trees on both sides. They don't quite touch like Marcy said she loved them to, but it is beautiful. And there is a sky so gray and cloudy that you start to question whether any blue really lays beyond what the eye captures. The air is dampened by the scent of dew and mist and an afternoon rain that hasn't fallen yet and a chill runs up your legs; dances across your arms; tiptoes down the back of your neck. You breathe and your breath is as white as smoke.
He is there, and on one hand you feel like nine years were stolen from the two of you and on the other you know you've always had the moon. He said, "Sometimes, after work, I just walk. I walk down the street and I look at everyone and I miss you. I miss you during work; I miss you during dinner; I miss you while I'm on the train or in my bed or at Sandy's. When I walk outside, I pretend the moon's a telephone and that you can hear me and I tell you about my day and about how much I just can't wait to actually see you in person again." He said, "Derrick reminds me of myself at his age, only nicer." He said, "The two men in her life," as Marcy held up a camera in the dark restaurant; as you felt your grandpa stiffen up from two seats away because, after all, he was the one taking care of you; as you felt like the moment was stolen, like so many before it. There were still so many parts of your father that made him your hero.
You turn your face to look at him and he lifts a cigarette to his mouth. You try to swallow the knot in your throat. And sometimes words fail to adequately describe the way the leaves sound as they crunch beneath your feet, the way the wind tends to grip your shoulders, the small of your back, that tender area behind your knees and shove you forward when you feel your legs about to buckle, or the way his pain manifests itself in the very bluest portions of his eyes.
You'd fall to pieces if the little red specks in them ever disappeared.
A different 'he' told you that his favorite time was prom night, but you disagree. When you skim back through all of the memories the two of you have made, your favorite of them all was something random. You can't remember the month or the day or the time but you can remember the rain. It wrapped the house like a blanket and you could hear it and feel it and almost taste it even through the walls. Nothing was on. There was no electrical current to faintly buzz in the background or Cops episode or Facebook page to distract you. There was nothing but pitch black and the sound of an almost silenced ocean surf rolling in and out from that machine and the rain, as intoxicating as moonshine. When your lips met, it sent a shock down your spine.
Your parents used to tell you stories as a child. Dad crafted his from Peter Pan and you were always the girl Peter was in love with. You swam with the mermaids and played with the fairies and the Lost Boys were some of your best friends and it was a delicately weaved masterpiece that crafted half of your dream world. On Christmas, Santa Claus brought you a foil picture of this seperate macrocosm you'd always been told stories of and during baths, your parents used to shape your shampooed hair into the shape of Peter's cap. Some nights, your mom would come in and tell of a black horse that flew to your window in the middle of the night. He'd tap three times and take you away to the most beautiful places and fly so fast that you'd always be back by morning. You saw oceans with crystal blue waters and beaches with black sand. You never knew they were real. And you'd ask your parents to always leave the door open when they left and the light on in the bathroom and you slept with the covers over your head because you were afraid of the monsters.
When your mother died, you pretended that she was better; that she was on vacation; that she missed you. And her memories slowly faded from vivid to dim: from split reels, to polaroids, to hazy images viewed from double-paned windows. Now you dream of more realistic things: of holding hands during the lilac festival beneath that twisted tree, of dorm rooms, long drives, and a relationship that won't fall to the wayside, and of that night on the Rochester road outside your cousins' house having lasted so much longer than it did.
You'll always miss the past: some times more than others. But the past is like an anchor. It can keep you stable or it can hold you back. So, know that what you abandon is what you must leave behind to improve. Be sure you love who you're becoming.
There is a street with trees on both sides. They don't quite touch like Marcy said she loved them to, but it is beautiful. And there is a sky so gray and cloudy that you start to question whether any blue really lays beyond what the eye captures. The air is dampened by the scent of dew and mist and an afternoon rain that hasn't fallen yet and a chill runs up your legs; dances across your arms; tiptoes down the back of your neck. You breathe and your breath is as white as smoke.
He is there, and on one hand you feel like nine years were stolen from the two of you and on the other you know you've always had the moon. He said, "Sometimes, after work, I just walk. I walk down the street and I look at everyone and I miss you. I miss you during work; I miss you during dinner; I miss you while I'm on the train or in my bed or at Sandy's. When I walk outside, I pretend the moon's a telephone and that you can hear me and I tell you about my day and about how much I just can't wait to actually see you in person again." He said, "Derrick reminds me of myself at his age, only nicer." He said, "The two men in her life," as Marcy held up a camera in the dark restaurant; as you felt your grandpa stiffen up from two seats away because, after all, he was the one taking care of you; as you felt like the moment was stolen, like so many before it. There were still so many parts of your father that made him your hero.
You turn your face to look at him and he lifts a cigarette to his mouth. You try to swallow the knot in your throat. And sometimes words fail to adequately describe the way the leaves sound as they crunch beneath your feet, the way the wind tends to grip your shoulders, the small of your back, that tender area behind your knees and shove you forward when you feel your legs about to buckle, or the way his pain manifests itself in the very bluest portions of his eyes.
You'd fall to pieces if the little red specks in them ever disappeared.
A different 'he' told you that his favorite time was prom night, but you disagree. When you skim back through all of the memories the two of you have made, your favorite of them all was something random. You can't remember the month or the day or the time but you can remember the rain. It wrapped the house like a blanket and you could hear it and feel it and almost taste it even through the walls. Nothing was on. There was no electrical current to faintly buzz in the background or Cops episode or Facebook page to distract you. There was nothing but pitch black and the sound of an almost silenced ocean surf rolling in and out from that machine and the rain, as intoxicating as moonshine. When your lips met, it sent a shock down your spine.
Your parents used to tell you stories as a child. Dad crafted his from Peter Pan and you were always the girl Peter was in love with. You swam with the mermaids and played with the fairies and the Lost Boys were some of your best friends and it was a delicately weaved masterpiece that crafted half of your dream world. On Christmas, Santa Claus brought you a foil picture of this seperate macrocosm you'd always been told stories of and during baths, your parents used to shape your shampooed hair into the shape of Peter's cap. Some nights, your mom would come in and tell of a black horse that flew to your window in the middle of the night. He'd tap three times and take you away to the most beautiful places and fly so fast that you'd always be back by morning. You saw oceans with crystal blue waters and beaches with black sand. You never knew they were real. And you'd ask your parents to always leave the door open when they left and the light on in the bathroom and you slept with the covers over your head because you were afraid of the monsters.
When your mother died, you pretended that she was better; that she was on vacation; that she missed you. And her memories slowly faded from vivid to dim: from split reels, to polaroids, to hazy images viewed from double-paned windows. Now you dream of more realistic things: of holding hands during the lilac festival beneath that twisted tree, of dorm rooms, long drives, and a relationship that won't fall to the wayside, and of that night on the Rochester road outside your cousins' house having lasted so much longer than it did.
You'll always miss the past: some times more than others. But the past is like an anchor. It can keep you stable or it can hold you back. So, know that what you abandon is what you must leave behind to improve. Be sure you love who you're becoming.