I said you were born into this world containing a lot of fear. But a lot of curiosity, too.
You growing up was your curiosity riding you off into the sunset.
When you were a baby, you were scared of gym class. You took smooth white pebbles from the neighbor’s yard and buried them under your moss. You had a hermit crab named Veronica and she was a beautiful skittering thing of claws and spots and soft soft skin.
These are all your memories but it is very hard, sometimes, for me to talk to people, so I love your memories as much as my own.
I tell you this while we eat sashimi and you cry into your napkin. I look at you, in your big green fur coat. I have tears too. I look at you with my stomach full of avocados that grew and softened and were opened and arranged. I look at you with my stomach full of fish, in my wildest dream this fish moved through ice water hundreds of years ago and grazed an american girl doll’s foot. But you bought this fish for me today.
You say you have been all over the world but mostly alone. I remember being an unqualified first baseman with my heart lobbing itself against my chest. On the phone with my mom in the dugout, she blamed it on the blue snowcone I ate. We went to the cardiologist and I lit up like a Christmas tree. Somewhere across the state a xanax laden fourth grader moved around the soccer field like a mossball struggling up a mountain. And it was you.
I’m struggling down a mountain, you’re buying a truck. I’m zooming through google maps; I am a maverick. Today we are both buckled up and headed north.