his morning, I wake, pooled under the mailboxes. I am as stiff and as
cold ... and then I remember. As John, who is dead, and now I suppose my
living up here has a new quality of drama to it.
The first time we visited Burlington, I was 20 and he was my too-old best
friend in a November where I would leave behind a fiance as well as my
family to pursue of a life of solitude and movie magic moments. At
statements like that he would look at me and grimace, say I was being
obtuse, melodramatic. He was incensed with my peculiar habit of
documenting my life. We commenced a brief affair, that has, or had,
wound up lasting a decade. I moved to Burlington, learned to drive as an
escape attempt, and failed gratefully.
Last night, I got the call I've been practicing for since that first
November drive and I still didn't know my lines. I went out to sit, by
the road in front of my home, leaning against the posts, coffee in hand,
trying to figure out how I've lost my voice, now that this is finally my
story to tell. For ten years I have tried not to write a word. John
would always say, some things are too good for other people. What John
meant was that he was too good for other people, and too good for me. I
see that grimace again, but this time it's mine.
First published: October 1997