Mr.Gardner:
I have to write about this because I don’t know how to say it.
And I never really will.
So here it is:
It’s an old biology teacher, crippled by cancer, hobbling into the school where he used to work, saying in his ruined voice, “You’ll never know what this place has done for you. You’ll never, never know.”
It’s hearing him through the walls in physics class before he got the news. He’s sliding across the Formica countertop on his beer belly, a cry of “Time for biology!” pumping thick out of his throat.
And it’s a blonde camp counselor who lets you stay up sucking at cigarettes until one in the morning because the loss is too thick to sleep with unless it’s thinned out by tobacco and nicotine and the moon rolling quiet through the mountains and reminiscing.
About how he used to do…
And how he used to say…
And it’s a red-haired girl who stays up with your cigarettes and chews at your grief so you won’t have to chew it alone.
And it’s a boy mashing his fingertips against phantom piano keys, traced out on the wood of his desk, in time to a Ben Folds song.
And it’s drumming on your steering wheel on the drive home from 81st and Memorial.
And it’s explosions and the Pixies and “everything’s gone to shit but we’ll be okay anyway.”
And holding hands.
And it’s a boy who ducks his head under covers because he’s terrified of his own body and even more terrified of the body next to his.
It’s two kids sitting next to each other, elbows furiously touching on an arm rest, humming heat through shirt sleeves so they wouldn’t move them to applaud, to pick up a program, to wave to someone they know who’s performing.
And it’s a boy who sits cross-legged on your floor. And kisses your forehead. And makes you feel like you’re not so scary after all.
But more than anything, it’s all of us sliding across countertops on beer-bellies, chorusing in voices rough and ruined and sweet and hoarse, “It’s time for biology!”
[i miss that guy.]
And I never really will.
So here it is:
It’s an old biology teacher, crippled by cancer, hobbling into the school where he used to work, saying in his ruined voice, “You’ll never know what this place has done for you. You’ll never, never know.”
It’s hearing him through the walls in physics class before he got the news. He’s sliding across the Formica countertop on his beer belly, a cry of “Time for biology!” pumping thick out of his throat.
And it’s a blonde camp counselor who lets you stay up sucking at cigarettes until one in the morning because the loss is too thick to sleep with unless it’s thinned out by tobacco and nicotine and the moon rolling quiet through the mountains and reminiscing.
About how he used to do…
And how he used to say…
And it’s a red-haired girl who stays up with your cigarettes and chews at your grief so you won’t have to chew it alone.
And it’s a boy mashing his fingertips against phantom piano keys, traced out on the wood of his desk, in time to a Ben Folds song.
And it’s drumming on your steering wheel on the drive home from 81st and Memorial.
And it’s explosions and the Pixies and “everything’s gone to shit but we’ll be okay anyway.”
And holding hands.
And it’s a boy who ducks his head under covers because he’s terrified of his own body and even more terrified of the body next to his.
It’s two kids sitting next to each other, elbows furiously touching on an arm rest, humming heat through shirt sleeves so they wouldn’t move them to applaud, to pick up a program, to wave to someone they know who’s performing.
And it’s a boy who sits cross-legged on your floor. And kisses your forehead. And makes you feel like you’re not so scary after all.
But more than anything, it’s all of us sliding across countertops on beer-bellies, chorusing in voices rough and ruined and sweet and hoarse, “It’s time for biology!”
[i miss that guy.]