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Seven

It was far too early. For me, anyway. I'm hardly ever awake at that hour but I wanted that moment. I needed it. Where night meets day and dawn breaks with a delicate promise of sunlit, peach-colored hope.

I also didn't want to run into anyone.

I wanted space to mourn in silence. Peace to reminisce in solitude. I never was one for socializing, especially not at cemeteries.

I trudged through the dew-soaked grass with my orange hood up and a box of Kleenex under my arm. I sat down, impervious to the damp quickly seeping into my jeans. The moisture wetting my face was palpable though. I stared off into the distance as if to avoid making eye contact and having to offer the first word.

It was getting lighter.

Hi...

Starting is always the hardest part.

The tears were falling faster and soon with them a stream of words.

I miss you. I...I'm sorry I almost forgot. It took me a whole hour after I woke up yesterday to remember what day it was. For what it's worth, February 23rd is still the worst day of the year every year. That never changes. I couldn't remember if you liked sunflowers. They were the closest to orange I could find. Not that we ever talked about flowers. We were too busy fording rivers and warding off dysentery and adventuring our way to Oregon. Oh, and giving our families outrageous names worthy of the wild, wild west. And raiding our moms' secret cabinet stashes for after-school snacks. Some secret, huh? You were the best at wheedling change for vending machine sodas. Haha. Remember that time you told such a good joke even you yourself shot Sunkist out your nose?

I basked in the warmth of pleasant memories before they shortly faded into regrets.

Like the time I threw a 13-year-old tantrum because I didn't want to go your birthday party at the bowling alley because R would be there and she had an obnoxiously big mouth but my mom was making me go or else.

Some things never change. Parties just aren't my scene. And mother always knows.

Or sitting on cold hospital linoleum trying to imagine what you looked like with your entire chest split open and all your insides out for the world to see. Trying to picture which tube the nurse clamped wrong causing blood to suddenly spew everywhere...

The sun then peeked out, spreading a fuzzy blanket over my shoulders like a soft cashmere throw.

Thanks for the holding the rain this year. That would have been too much.

Stillness and nostalgia and presence lingered in the air. I sat for just a moment longer before easing my body into an upright position. I could hear a leaf blower start up not far off, the honk of a horn as the normal day took its place at the head of the line. The fragility of morning had broken and it was off to life as usual. Or something. I needed a shower.

It's been real, hermano. Hasta la próxima.

Poem About Morning - William Meredith

Whether it's sunny or not, it's sure
To be enormously complex—
Trees or streets outdoors, indoors whoever you share,
And yourself, thirsty, hungry, washing,
An attitude towards sex.
No wonder half of you wants to stay
With your head dark and wishing
Rather than take it all on again:
Weren't you duped yesterday?
Things are not orderly here, no matter what they say.

But the clock goes off, if you have a dog
It wags, if you get up now you'll be less
Late. Life is some kind of loathsome hag
Who is forever threatening to turn beautiful.
Now she gives you a quick toothpaste kiss
And puts a glass of cold cranberry juice,
Like a big fake garnet, in your hand.
Cranberry juice! You're lucky, on the whole,
But there is a great deal about it you don't understand.