Everyone has their own way of mourning. This is going to be mine. Right now, it's just you, me, and Deftones. White Pony album. Loud. Bass up. The way you would want it.
Are you listening?
This is my therapy. This is my acsension to the next astral plane, my meditation, my reincarnation. This is my out of body experience, my primal scream, my lucid dream. This is my road trip, my shared tub of ice cream, my board game on a rainy day.
This was me and you.
You killed yourself.
There was nothing passing about it, in the same way there was nothing passing about you.
Months earlier, I had sat on the tailgate of my truck, alone on the road, in the frigid cold. I was driving home from your house, late for my curfew, as usual, when something burned through me, and all the hairs on my arms pulled away from my body. I pulled over, got out, and sat staring at the northern lights. I've been blessed. I lifted my head up to the sky, and somehow saw part of us there. You told me I was Mars, and that you lost me when the summer faded.
I never told you this, but do you remember that time you came with my brother into the city to pick me up from that political conference I was at? It was a surprise, I had no idea you were coming. We went out to Therapy that night, and the ravers threw pennies at me. (So much for being an "accepting" subculture.) In the morning, you woke me up gently and told me, "Hey we have to go." I pretended to still be sleeping. "Baby, wake up," you said. You only used the word "baby" because you thought I wasn't awake. But I heard you. And I kind of liked it, even though I wouldn't admit it. Even though I wasn't the kind of girl who even liked flowers. (Do you remember when you hid behind Darryl to give me flowers on Valentine's Day, for fear that I would punch you?) Sometimes when I think about you, I think about that- the gentle tone of your voice when you thought I was sleeping.
One of the first things I told you was that I thought the morning was the most personal time of day. Maybe that's why you let me curl into bed with you in the mornings before school.
When my grandma died, I called you first. "She really liked you, you know?" My grandma always thought you were really funny. Which you were.
You let my little cousin Brett play your drums, and come to your practices. Did you know he has his own drum kit now? He's 13 this year. He still asks about you.There was nothing passing about you. You were intensity and wanting so much to make a mark, make a change.
And I broke my promise to you.
I'm glad you can finally fly Kenny. Because I think that's all you really ever wanted.