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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Plot twist: I'm writing about your dad instead of mine.


I remember the night you asked me to meet your father. He'd been somewhat of an enigma to me, as he was notorious for disappearing for days and days at a time for business. Of all the thousands of nights that summer that I spent curled up between your sheets listening to you play your guitar, he never once happened upon us. There was no sneaking, there was no deception--you assured me that he wouldn't have cared, had he been there, he was just always too busy to notice.
I wore your favorite dress that night, the one that was tied to your suggestible wrists by the loose threads around the bodice. I wanted you to be proud of me, a piece to show off to your father that you admired from afar. I knew his opinion mattered to you, and I wanted him to think that you'd done well. I painted my eyes and lips with shaking hands in anticipation for a call that would never come.
Hours passed--from six, when you said you'd pick me up; seven, when I called you; eight, when you still hadn't called me back; eleven, when your sister called to ask where we were; and four in the morning, when I stared into a makeshift sunrise and let myself be pulled into the horizon. What's in a lie, lover? I can handle rejection, but your promises hung around me like paper stars tied to the ceiling fan with long strands of yarn.
The next night, you phoned as usual, and I played along. It wasn't until much later that I found out that your dad never came home that night--he'd found someone on the side of the road to take home, and her house seemed far more intriguing than his own son to whom he'd sworn that particular night. I washed away my anticipation and joy in a shower of frozen water, letting it cage me in and hold me there. I ached for you and I still do, but I wonder about how often you've lied in your lifetime.
I developed resentment for your father that night, because from then on, we carried on with our casual affair. You never brought him up again, though I spent the same nights in the same bedclothes, soothed by yet another rendition of "Asthenia." After the summer faded, so did I, and I was nothing to write to him about. A friend of yours drove through Clarksdale to visit and happened upon the almost-extinct occasion of family dinner with all pawns in place. She met your father and I never heard from you again.
All of that to say this: today, I drove by your house. I watched you mow the lawn as I crept by, until I realized that your parking spot was empty and your bedroom light blown out. He has your broad shoulders, sandy blonde hair. At fifty-three, he still holds your commanding, attractive presence--two rival Roman gods left to spar in the ruins of the Bolivar railroad station. In that moment, I wanted to turn on the left blinker just one more time. I wanted to embrace your father, to tell him that I was sorry. I imagine that his chin would rest atop my head like yours used to and he'd breathe in my shampoo and perfume. He'd wonder why we never met, and I'd explain that genetics are cruel--not only does he have your eyes, your smile, your frame, he's got your way with broken promises, too. But to be honest and reasonable, I clenched white knuckles against the steering wheel and drove past. He continued mowing the lawn with no idea who was behind the wheel of the car that used to park in his driveway every night last summer. I continued driving by in that car, wondering if he'd have loved me too.
I took the long way home, the unpaved drive from the highway to my home that used to be yours. It's funny how things work out sometimes. I hope you call him today from Caohoma county. He can't help what he passed down to you and you damn well aren't in a position to blame him for it.

Labels: clarksdale, cleveland, father's day, genetics, trains

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