I should look past it. I know this all too well but still not well enough it seems.
I drive by daily even though it’s at least twenty minutes out of my way. I don’t mind, I never did.
It’s a secluded place, a quiet neighborhood. Far beyond where people go willingly or without valid reason. I pull up on the driveway or what’s left of it. They put up signs saying “danger”, “keep out” and “beware”. Beware of what? Beware of the past that lies shattered and interred under the remains of a former home? It’s not as hard to see what it used to be as seeing what it is now.
Up on the patio I always need to catch my breath. I sit where my chair used to be and lean back against the wall. Under my feet the crackling of the pieces of a lamp holder. The one with the purple monkeys. The one I bought just to piss you off. You kept moving it outside and I kept moving it back in. I never did admit…I hated it as much as you did.
I gather my courage and go inside. I’ve been here so many times before, but some days are particularly hard. This is one of them.
Crime tape near the stairs, warning people not to go up. Hinting of the dangers that lurk there. As always, I ignore the signs and find my way to the first floor. To our room where the bed frame still stands. I accidentally step on the broken glass from the mirror. The one we had only just bought. Because you had broken our old one ages ago, hitting it with your fist after hearing your father had died. It was the first time I saw you cry. I sat down beside you, between all the tiny pieces and held you for hours. You looked up at me and then glanced around the room, finally resting your eyes on the fragments of glass. You wiped the love out of your eyes and said softly: “I’m sorry if I scared you.” and put your arm around me. I smiled and looked at the glass laying at our feet, “Scared me? That’s 7 years of bad luck right there, you did more than just scare me.” You laughed so I just started laughing along.
I smile at the memory of us. Young, inexperienced, irresponsible and somewhat ignorant.
Burnt pictures on burnt shelves alongside the books we never read. Drawers full of ashes and things I don’t want to recognize or can’t. The piano looks old and sad and I can’t get it to play the tunes you used to play.
I kept the tape from our answering machine. I found it three months later in the glove compartment of our car. You wanted to throw it out but I said I’d tape some jazz songs over it. I never did. Luckily.
Through our bedroom window I see our car parked right outside and for a brief moment I think I’ll hear you come in any second now. You’d stay out for hours when you were angry. You’d slam the door shut and wouldn’t tell me where you were going. I’d be worried sick the entire night and hope you’d get home in one piece. I’d lay in bed staring at the ceiling waiting for the sound of a car engine. I knew your every move. It took me a while. Our first fight was about nothing but it was something to you. When you finally came up and sat on the bedside I turned my back to you and said; “Fuck, Luke, it’s like we’re married already.”, you ignored me and took off your shoes and coat. I secretly watched you.
“How ‘bout telling me where you’re going next time?”
You crawled in bed beside me and whispered in my ear: “Well, where’s the fun in that?” Now it was my turn to ignore you. But you always found a way to evoke reaction. “Wanna have make-up sex?”
I poked you in the stomach with my elbow, perhaps just a little too hard. “You’re an ass!”.
As I close our bedroom door, I imagine it the way it was and quickly look back in. Just to make sure.
I walk through the hall, aware of the creaking zones and weak spots, and stop at the half empty room. The crib in the center seems lost and out of place. The still slightly visible paintings hint of a child’s room. It wasn’t finished yet. I was still working on it and you were going to put up shelves for toys and books and stuffed animals. And he was going to grow up with a father, in a safe and stable home without signs up front saying “danger” or “beware”.
He’s older now, almost two. He’s got my nose and smile, but in everything he does I can still see you. I told him of when he was born and how I saw his father cry for the second time, tears of love and joy and pride, so much pride. I taught him to say ‘dad’ even though he’s got no one to say it to.
I hate having next to nothing to remember you by. All our memories and youth, and you, gone with everything else we lost in the fire. The worst part isn’t missing you. It’s forgetting that you’re gone. And that he doesn’t even know. I listen to your voice every so often, saying you’re not here now and I should leave a message. And I do, I always do.
