Get in

Photo by Jesse Bauer on Unsplash

What if we’re not afraid enough. What if we’re frozen in panic when we should be running in terror. What if we’re afraid of slipping when we’re already falling. What if those rules no longer matter. Those rules we were taught of the what and the when and the how. But what if the rules were broken for us and all we can do is hold on. We’re all heads bobbing in the ocean now. Some of us thinking we’re on a nice swim. Some of us watching for waves. We’re out of time. The current will pull us all under. Cling to a friend or cling to garbage but hang on tight.

Walls go up overnight. I’ve seen the slabs, fifty years after overnight. I’ve heard them say they were planning to leave. They weren’t ready. They needed a few more days. A couple weeks is all. They were waiting for the signs. They were waiting for the announcement. There should be a flyer. A notice. The last brick set while they slept. The people who say it, their eyes are urgency in a blinking stare. A forced don’t look back too long. You don’t have time for that. You have a moment and years to wish you’d seen it. Sometimes Christmas never comes.

You said you wanted to tell me something. All you wanted was to drive around the block, show me your new piece of shit car that you were so fucking proud of. You sat in the driveway and said this one has speakers. We said this one will make it to California. This one will make it to Carolina. We’ll take turns driving and see the ocean. I didn’t get in and I didn’t go around the block and I don’t remember why but it doesn’t fucking matter, does it? I said I’d see you before I left.

I left for Carolina and wrote you a letter and read yours twice. You never did hold a grudge. We said you’d make it after the semester. I said I’d come home for Christmas. We could drive around the block. We’d roll the windows down and play that Chely Wright song and sing too loud off key. You said we’d seen enough of Amarillo. This car would make it to Carolina.

I told you about the ocean and you said I should be a writer. You told me about the boy with the turtle tattoo and I said you should be a writer too. I said I’d show you the ocean and we’d walk in the sand. We can do this. When I get back. You start driving when I call and I’ll start flying. Who needs Christmas anyway. You were going to tell me something.

The desert turned cold and you sent me a sweater with your college on it. I bought you the necklace with your name on it in a language that looks like waves. You’d start driving and I’d start flying and we’d make it to the beach by Christmas. But I called the house and James answered and snotted out the news and I hung up the phone and the part of me that believed in things like tomorrow died in that desert. You never saw the ocean. I never heard what you wanted to say. And I swore into the desert at stars I didn’t know that I’d always go around the block. I’d get in the goddamn car. I’d fly there if I had to. Walls go up overnight and hearts can stop on a dime and life gives you a moment but it’s never a good time.

I’ve saved you a rock from every ocean and I keep them in a box with the letters and a necklace that looks like waves. But I wrote a book and never said your name. They read the book and think they know anything about me at all. But they never will because I don’t tell them about you. You were supposed to write this part.

What if this is all we’ve got to work with. Life doesn’t check our schedules. Life just keeps on happening whether we’re ready or not. Who do we choose. Where do we go. You get in the car or the car drives off without you. Who will take us. What if we’re not supposed to hope. What if hope is deadly. What if there’s no Carolina. What if the wall doesn’t come down. What if hope is delusion. What if this is who you’ve got. What if you got in the car.