Some days, I think I see
the dead. At first, I refuse to catch myself, I get excited.. The
familiarity of a posture, of hair, style of dress. It fools me. Momentarily.
I
know better, I've been here before and seen it for what it is, impossible. Still, I can't help but think they
hide from me, but are not truly
absent. I know their songs, their smells. The second boy I ever kissed left the scent of
Old Spice on my sheets, he taught me the words to
Waterfalls, when I never would have known.
Things changed and we became so different, not even close. but I went to his
funeral. I listened to other
former friends fight over who
grieved most. I fought
tears - it had been a long time - I wasn't sure I had earned the
pain.
The other one was
worse, he followed so quickly. and I never really knew him, we weren't even friends. It affected me more to see that so few people had been. And I was used to our
routines of passing and never speaking. I delude myself into thinking those rhythms continue.
They follow me,
appear when I don't expect it, before I remind myself of the facts. So I do a
double take, and stare hard at boys who are never who they shouldn't be.