I feel like my life revolves around the moments where I am sitting in the floor of my room, surrounded by all of my things, waiting to pack up and move across the state. I loathe packing--I always have--but there's something therapeutic about it, especially with Michael sitting here beside me, "helping" as he talks.
"Cleveland, Mississippi, is where people go to die," I conclude. "Nobody likes it here and they don't like each other, but it's the Bermuda triangle--or, well, the Mississippi Delta. You come here and no one hears from or sees the person that came here again."
Michael agrees vehemently, sipping his beer as I fold thirty tee-shirts that I never wear but carry around out of necessity to do so. I've always seen him as so beautiful and better than I am. He throws lavish parties with exclusive guest lists, drove a nice car and there was talk that he'd dated other boys in the past, but he'd never confirm or deny. That was okay with me--I enjoyed imagining all the things he'd do in his spare time, from drinking chai and reading graphic novels, to watching French silent films with any boy and/or girl who'd wanted to see him that night.
"People are wrong about me, though," he confided, "Any time I spend with any one is of my own doing. People don't seek me out, and they come to my house just to get shipwrecked."
I think of his glass coffee table and the paintings on the walls in his living room. I've never been to his house, but I have my visions. I am never one of the people he sought, but I never seek him either. I am no better than the bitches we were ranting about, but I let him continue as I took the books from the credenza.
"I made up my mind to be happy here, but I spend my spare time sleeping. I'm scared of this and that, but I'm making it."
Michael, I said last week that I have no use for you unless we're dancing together in perfect time. I'm looking at you right now and you're blinking back diamonds but I understand and it makes everything so much more painful than it has to be. All this time I spent thinking that it was my fault and your fault and their faults for letting ourselves be changed and letting the love we once had fade into a corn field on the outskirts of Renova. All this time, I thought we controlled our own destinies...but not so much. My life, integrity, and self-esteem are packed into these revolving boxes and moves from place to place. Michael's faith in God and humanity lives in another town, not in this black hole of a rural collection of hypocrites that delight in cars, clothes and spending money they don't have. The trees don't make oxygen for us, but they stand and sympathise--they used to be grand, green and producers of the best things money can't buy, but now they hunker over the bright lights and whisper truths amongst themselves.
Michael and I, well, we're getting out. We're getting out for weeks at a time, and this time we're regrowing bits of ourselves in Petri dishes and letting happiness mold over all of the resetment we've bred here. When we come back, we'll have a reserve to make it through a semester, if that, before they crush us again. It's a beautiful cycle. I fucking hate it.

Labels: almost memories, cleveland, hate, love, michael, mississippi, the delta

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When I was young,
Kaylan was my oldest and greatest friend.
When I moved from the city
into our trailer in the hills,
she was the only one who understood seven-year-old me.
Every Friday evening, I'd sit
peering out of my screen door
fogging up the glass in anticipation
and dreaming of the fun we'd have.
We experienced everything...
everything this part of the country could offer.
Blacklights, eyeliner, crushes, and alcohol:
Forbidden things. We unearthed ancient secrets.
We'd lie in the pool until she turned watermelon pink
and I turned dark like the soil.
Sunday morning, we'd wake up and put on pretty, white dresses.
We'd tie ribbons into our curls and carry our Bibles
and giggle at the old women sleeping in the choir
until my father scolded us.
We loved each other.
Adolescence is a cruel thing, with its deceptions and expectations,
and as we passed through it,
we forgot our Friday evenings and Saturday nights and Sunday mornings.
She's very much the same, but I have turned myself inside out,
with my bones on display on the outside of me.
People say I'm better off now than then,
or they say we have to keep up with the real world that pulls people apart
but sometimes, I miss her and I wish I were half as honest
or pretty, or pure as she is now
but then I remember
I am brown like soil--
rich and promising--
and now she holds her husband's hand
and he doesn't let her talk.

Labels: almost memories, church, kaylan, summer

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My father's brother was an alcoholic...at least that's what they called him. He lives behind our house, a bit through the woods, so it's easy for him to disappear into his addiction. After four in the afternoon, he'd be of no use to anyone anymore because he'd be reciting the Encyclopedia Brittanica into his ginger ale and vodka. He'd be speaking French, Portuguese, German, and Swahili to the telemarketers who didn't know any better than to call in the evening. He'd witness the love of Jesus to Jehova's traveling saint brigade. He knew so much about everything when he'd been drinking that of course I'd be intrigued.
I wanted to learn from him. He was not a simple man by any means, but the leap in intelligence between sobriety and toxicity was remarkable. My first sip of alcohol, my first word of Spanish, the first dish I ever cooked alone--all under his inebriated supervision. My father would be irate beyond all comprehension when I'd come home and share my newfound knowledge, telling me that I shouldn't waste my time, I should be careful, I shouldn't put stock on his words; however, at 4:30 p.m., I'd still pretend to go walking on the vast acreage behind our country home. I never stopped visiting his brother, I just stopped bringing anything home. I'd take the beaten path that steered west of his house and the powers that be would become satiated as I grew smaller on the horizon, but I'd slide and dive through thickets and briars into my own ill-trodden railroad to his home, where he'd teach me about the things my dad was afraid of.
My father's brother doubled over in pain at 5:30 p.m. in his country home on evening. His mind went stark white, as did his weather-beaten face. His limbs grew leaves as he reached for the telephone, but we avoided the call on the caller ID, as did his sisters. After all, who wants a lay pastor saving your soul from TV dinners with his sick textbook banter? We said grace over supper and never thought of it again until we saw the red lights spill across our living room floor.
Three little words and three little numbers got him where he needed to be as his liver failed and his body rebelled against southern comfort of all sorts. Now they say he's getting better, he's not an alcoholic anymore. My father's brother is growing stronger with every day. He's looking younger, they say, and his calcified bones have snapped apart and he can walk in a straight line again. He's out past sunset, driving sober and taking in sights and teaching pretty girls things they didn't know about the Mississippi Delta. They say he's doing better than he ever has, or at least better than they've ever seen him.
I don't know who to believe. They never visited his sickbed or listened to his symptoms. They never opened the books that he wrote every night--the journals of Vietnam, of the Civil War, of World Wars I & II. They saw his illness and steered clear, letting his body break down his resolve to nip from the frosted bottle in the freezer. I haven't seen him since he's recovered because I'm not sure I'd call it a recovery.
I can't help but think of him any time I throw back a shot or a glass of wine. Does he miss me messing up his kitchen with failed attempts at culinary masterpieces? Does he still watch the weather channel from 6:30 until 7:15? Did he dream up the constellations that I reconstructed with glowing plastic stars on my bedroom ceiling?
Is being sober boring after you've held planets between your palms?
Does he miss knowing everything that everyone in the world has ever known?

Labels: alcohol, alcoholism, almost memories

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