The jacarandas were out early.
In fact, all the flowers seemed to be out early, and had lasted longer than usual, some even attempting a second flowering, though the summer heat had quickly put an end to that. I was sitting at the bus stop; the bus was twenty minutes late and, consequently (was it?), so were you.
I bit my lip again, this time drawing blood. My fingers tapped against my wallet and I checked the board again.
But my flight was still delayed. I half-stood, preparing to abuse the vapid woman at the service desk, but thought better of it. The snow had stopped, and the wind had died down, but they still wouldn’t allow any flights out for another hour. I looked up, vainly, at the board again and imagined you, not the you of then, even, but the you of fifteen hours hence, tired of waiting, leaving, angry at me for ruining your night, this tiny but some how immeasurably large part of your life.
I reach out and hold your hand as we wait for the doctor, and pray by myself. Your eyes are red and puffy, but no more tears. somehow, I’m surprised you picked me to be here with you; why did you come to me, why pick me?
I’m almost ashamed of my pride, but you slip the ring on my finger and kiss me and I can’t imagine that I’m here, I’m the one next to you. You take my hand and walk me down the aisle amid cheers and cameras’ flashing.
We walk out the doors and into our backyard; how strange that marriage seems to start the insulation back to family. And I almost feel guilty that both of my parents are here, when one of yours is dead and the other still won’t talk to you.
This time you grab my hand as the pastor mumbles meaningless words about faith and hope and dirt which have nothing to do with the fact that my mother is dead.
And then I grab yours, this time standing at the back of the funeral and I wonder how many people know you were his child, or that you’re still alive. I hold you as you sob, and slowly lead you to the car and open your door.
We make love in the car on the side of the road to Melbourne and I feel I’ve never been happier. The rain and headlights lash the car and I look across at you, sleeping.
I start the car again and tell the kids to be quiet. We drive them to school and drop them off, then stop at that cafe we haven’t been to in years. I put down my coffee and kiss you gently on the mouth and you laugh when I tell you that I thought you’d never call me back… was that twenty years ago?
Then the party’s over and it’s just the four of us on the couch and I hold you all tight.
And then you’re holding me as the doctor walks away and, even though I should be thinking about options, all I can think about is who we should and shouldn’t tell and wondering who already knows, because as long as I think about that I don’t have to wonder if we’ll have to bury our son.
I give him one last hug before he takes his place at the altar and looks in nervous expectation for the first glimpse of his bride.
She walks through the door and ushers her children out to their aunt and granddads. I pick up one and bounce him on my knee and his laugh is so much like yours that I stop and I notice the jacarandas are out early this year.
You wrap your arms around me and I still can’t imagine why you chose me. Is it really me, lying next to you? And we stay awake late into the night and tell each other stories about all the things we’ve done and all the things we’ll do.
Even though you’ll die the next day, in my arms. And, even though I’ll die alone, except for the beeps and clicks of medical support that has nothing to do with life, I’ll remember waiting at that bus stop, biting my lip and knowing how much I need you.
In fact, all the flowers seemed to be out early, and had lasted longer than usual, some even attempting a second flowering, though the summer heat had quickly put an end to that. I was sitting at the bus stop; the bus was twenty minutes late and, consequently (was it?), so were you.
I bit my lip again, this time drawing blood. My fingers tapped against my wallet and I checked the board again.
But my flight was still delayed. I half-stood, preparing to abuse the vapid woman at the service desk, but thought better of it. The snow had stopped, and the wind had died down, but they still wouldn’t allow any flights out for another hour. I looked up, vainly, at the board again and imagined you, not the you of then, even, but the you of fifteen hours hence, tired of waiting, leaving, angry at me for ruining your night, this tiny but some how immeasurably large part of your life.
I reach out and hold your hand as we wait for the doctor, and pray by myself. Your eyes are red and puffy, but no more tears. somehow, I’m surprised you picked me to be here with you; why did you come to me, why pick me?
I’m almost ashamed of my pride, but you slip the ring on my finger and kiss me and I can’t imagine that I’m here, I’m the one next to you. You take my hand and walk me down the aisle amid cheers and cameras’ flashing.
We walk out the doors and into our backyard; how strange that marriage seems to start the insulation back to family. And I almost feel guilty that both of my parents are here, when one of yours is dead and the other still won’t talk to you.
This time you grab my hand as the pastor mumbles meaningless words about faith and hope and dirt which have nothing to do with the fact that my mother is dead.
And then I grab yours, this time standing at the back of the funeral and I wonder how many people know you were his child, or that you’re still alive. I hold you as you sob, and slowly lead you to the car and open your door.
We make love in the car on the side of the road to Melbourne and I feel I’ve never been happier. The rain and headlights lash the car and I look across at you, sleeping.
I start the car again and tell the kids to be quiet. We drive them to school and drop them off, then stop at that cafe we haven’t been to in years. I put down my coffee and kiss you gently on the mouth and you laugh when I tell you that I thought you’d never call me back… was that twenty years ago?
Then the party’s over and it’s just the four of us on the couch and I hold you all tight.
And then you’re holding me as the doctor walks away and, even though I should be thinking about options, all I can think about is who we should and shouldn’t tell and wondering who already knows, because as long as I think about that I don’t have to wonder if we’ll have to bury our son.
I give him one last hug before he takes his place at the altar and looks in nervous expectation for the first glimpse of his bride.
She walks through the door and ushers her children out to their aunt and granddads. I pick up one and bounce him on my knee and his laugh is so much like yours that I stop and I notice the jacarandas are out early this year.
You wrap your arms around me and I still can’t imagine why you chose me. Is it really me, lying next to you? And we stay awake late into the night and tell each other stories about all the things we’ve done and all the things we’ll do.
Even though you’ll die the next day, in my arms. And, even though I’ll die alone, except for the beeps and clicks of medical support that has nothing to do with life, I’ll remember waiting at that bus stop, biting my lip and knowing how much I need you.
originally posted on jameshultgren.tumblr.com
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