Letters to Strangers
Maybe you're a stranger, now - a dark silhouette in memories that might fade and slip away from everyone and everything, and no one will know you like we did. No one will try. No one has the chance to. And maybe you're a stranger because you wanted it to be like that, and you wanted us to all be happy and realize that it's not always all o-k and that we waste our lives, day after day, until it eventually just falls apart like the dirt underneath you.
I can't drive over the bluffs anymore. I'm going to have to, but I'm going to be crying for awhile.
And now you're part of the river - your blood ran out of your nose and into the water and fish and pebbles. It drained passed construction work and under the bridge they found you and kept going and going and going and the deer will drink it, and it will water strawberries and the butterflies will fly away with you and the birds will eat them and you will be everywhere all at once. If only it had been that easy to begin with.
I drive over that bridge every day. I have to. And I have to go to the school that made you like that, and smile at the people who pushed you away from all of us and the moment I walk into the doors I'm going to start crying and leave and it's never
ever going to be the same, knowing you're gone, knowing you were here, knowing you.
I was crying all weekend. From Friday to this morning. I broke down the moment the boy left for dinner and I drove for two hours, aimless, crying. I drove slow. It was raining. Eddy Creek doesn't have shooting stars yet, but the meadow is beautiful and the cow grate it bent and broken like the heifers themselves rebelled. And with all my will I could take away the image of you, smiling, and smelling freesias. Of you in a Hazmat suit - blue and square and foreign - rolling around on the cement on a cold day. You with your snake and your bird and your little brother and sister. You force-feeding me spaghetti, showing me your new room at your grandparents house, being so excited about the posters your friend drew for you, telling me your grandmother paints, and me, roughly scratching your buzz-cut head like nothing else was there and you made fun of my car because it was beautiful but dirty.
Sometimes things go a little bit awry. People don't realize what the hell they're doing. School and education rule and destroy lives because everything is based off of, "A, B, C, or D?" and not everyone is tempered for the stress and ridiculous policies and credits. Wargo said if anyone said one bad thing they were leaving in a stretcher and he was leaving in cuffs. I told him I would be right next to him if something like that happened.
Stepping into those doors and into the lobby is such an ugly thought. The image of sitting in class makes my gut turn and I get cold.
And every time I was sitting in bed, I covered myself entirely with Boys' comforter and I hid from everything. And when I cried he held me and kissed my tears off of my face and closed his eyes and whispered, "It will be ok." and "I'm so sorry." and "I love you so much" and I was shaking with memories and your loss and the two of us were so helpless together because neither of us knew what to say or do. He told me it wasn't my fault, I knew that, I know that, and I said it wouldn't make it any easier.
And though no one is to blame, I know it is them, and your father, and I want to burn it all. I want to tell them they were wrong, and they should blame themselves and I fucking hope they do. But they shouldn't, or else we'll wind up with more people crying.
Stumble!