Jammed into a sardine can

ripping through the sky

at thirty-five thousand feet,

no one asked me

if I favored cock or pussy

for over two hours—

I guess it was either altitude sickness

or they didn’t give a shit.

We all shared our misery the same,

hating the ungrateful little bastards

kicking our seats

more than each other’s sexual orientations.

And when we lowered beneath the clouds

and when Florida revealed itself,

I raised my finger at the window

to the governor,

and offered a greeting from America.

According to Disney

my trip was soon to start

in the Gayest Place on Earth

DeSantis must have forgotten which State he ran for.

I'm afraid. I'm afraid that as I get older, birthdays will start to lose meaning. My father, and most of his friends, turn 50 this year. Do they care? Does it mean anything to them? Will my annual renaissances start to blur and run together, watercolors on an ever-shrinking blank page? Or will I continue to feel each pulse, each sweeping revolution of the hand? I can't tell for which I'm hoping anymore. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

Will I make it to 50? A few birthdays ago, I didn't think so. I didn't want to. I didn't want to make it to 25. What changed? Me?

Last time I saw my grandmother, she said she didn't want to hit triple digits (keep me off the machines). She married my grandfather in 1969. I wonder how he feels about that? Will he be the one to sign the forms for her? How many birthdays until that happens? I think she's 78 deep already.

In November, I'll hit the post again, pass go, collect my 200. Maybe I'll know then.

I escaped death, by drowning, through the keyhole in the water.

The day prior, I had randomly picked up a small thin book and flipped open to a page.

Number 14, I remember vividly. It gave a tip. "How to Save Yourself from Drowning," a diagram with the illustration of an old skeleton key and a doorway, like to Heaven.

I had never learnt to swim. Certainly not in peer pressure...

Tomorrow my best friend was turning 10. Her father had given her a letter N stuffie, for Nicole, and a birthday party at the lake. A green murky bottomless basin.

Too yucky for you? Pale skin blushing in the sun.

"Can your feet touch the ground?!"

Yes, yes, they can. Jump in, the water is fine!

"Jump in. Jump in. Jump in. Jump in..."

And in, there, too green.

Not coward, nor prudent

Not being able to swim..!

Not wanting to jump out of Life.

No one believing, in not floating up;

Eyes open, one foot under and sinking,

Time stops but the heart is still ticking,

I've no instinct except to Think: I am Going to Die.

My ears are deafening with liquid, and lungs are screaming.

I remember the keyhole and draw its potent shape in the water.

Propelled immediately like by magic string, gasping, to the surface, breathing!

It must have been way down dark to cause such a panic on their helpless small faces.

Five of us in the water and no one to save us. Children God bless the handle on the floaty.

They haul me to the rocky edge, where Mr. Falanga is in horror holding out a hairy hand.

Hoisted to a towel. Puking water on dry land.

This is how I escaped, death, by drowning.

Through the keyhole in the water.

06.28.2023

Birthdays & Getting Older challenge @Melpomene

My best friend’s birthday was today and in order to surprise her, I showed up at her house with a birthday cake and balloons. She was kind of disappointed that a lot of her friends forgot that it was her birthday, so she was super happy about me coming. It didn’t take a lot of effort on my part, because I was already in town, but to her it meant the world. She told me later that today was the greatest birthday she has ever had. You can never fully know what people are going through, and small acts of kindness can go a long way. Something small and easy can seem like the biggest sacrifice to someone who needs it, so don’t be afraid to show someone some kindness! A birthday is the perfect time to show someone just how important they are!

'I won't forget you,' he says.

And with those few final words, I am gone from his life forever.

But, wait. Let us start again. For this, our story, begins elsewhere.

Benedict Goodnight stands under a key-stoned archway in the cloistered quad of Wallsford Comprehensive and tries not to stare at Sundae Loving. He knows it is not polite to stare. Not that Mistress Loving would notice. Young Master Goodnight does not exist in her world. No more than we exist in his.

But all of that is about to change!

'Are you drooling, Goodnight?'

'Sir?'

'You are. You're positively foaming at the mouth, boy! Are you ill?'

'I'm in love, sir.'

'Love, eh? I wouldn't know the first thing about it. But do carry on.'

That was Benedict's problem. He never had. Carried on, I mean. With anyone. And certainly not with Sundae Loving. His heart was pure, and his thoughts were chaste. She was his Earth and he was her moon. Constantly in orbit. Unable to move away, and equally unable to move any nearer. A satellite love.

'And Goodnight?'

'Sir?'

'Try not to drown in your own saliva.'

Uncommon beauty is commonly overlooked. And while Mistress Sundae could not be considered a classical beauty, her whole was greater than the sum of her parts.

And Master Benedict? He was kind and honest. And the space between his ears was not an empty one. He was neither attractive nor unattractive, but your plain, ordinary, average boy on the street.

This is where I come in. My name is Giacomo Girolamo Casanova. And I happen to know a little something about love.

You will know, already, that I am dead. It happens. People die all the time. But death is not, necessarily, how you might imagine it. A life is not a candle to be snuffed out so easily. Sometimes a small wisp of smoke still lingers.

There are those who can hear me. Those who can see me. And those, though few, who can do both. Ben is one of them. As to whose shadow first crossed whose threshold, I cannot recall. It will suffice to say that we did meet, and were soon good friends.

One night, when he lay in his bed, and I was sitting in a chair by his window, Ben said, 'How do you get a girl to notice you?'

'Clothes,' I said. 'You must dress to impress!'

'Not helpful... Everyone at school wears the same uniform.'

'It is not what you wear,' I told him, 'but how you wear it. A tie is not a noose around your neck. A blazer is not a sack for harvesting vegetables.'

'Ok. What else?'

'Never tuck your shirt inside your underpants. Who taught you to do that?'

'I don't know. It's just something we do.'

'Who is we?' I asked.

'Guys, I guess. Boys?'

'A-ha! Yes! Little boys. Girls do not look at little boys. They cuddle them. They baby them. They bounce them them on their knees. Is that what you want? To be bounced?'

'Well... No.'

'Then you must be a man, and not a little boy. A young man, perhaps. But a man!'

'How do I do that?'

'First, you must think of yourself as a man. To think like a man, you must look like a man. Your hair. Your clothes. We will change everything! Trust me, my friend. You will not believe the difference!'

We began the very next morning. I laid out Ben's uniform while he showered. His body was nothing more, and nothing less, than I expected. Normal. There was nothing un-expected. The usual bits were in the usual places.

'Stand up straight,' I said. 'Do not slouch! Shoulders back! Chest out! Chin up! Now, repeat after me. I am a man!'

'I am a man.'

'You do not sound so sure. Say it. I am a man!'

'I am a man!'

'Better. A penis is not something to be ashamed of. Say it!'

'A penis - '

'No. No. I am a man!'

'I am a man!'

'Good! Get dressed. There is still much to do!'

When Ben was dressed to my satisfaction, I asked him if he was a sheep.

'What? No!'

'So why,' I said, 'do you comb your hair over your eyes? Who are you hiding from? Use your fingers to brush it back from your face. Show the world you are not afraid!'

'You're wearing a wig,' he said.

'It was the fashion when I was alive,' I replied. 'It is not the fashion now.'

'But you still wear it.'

'It suits me to do so. And we are not concerned with my appearance. So, my young friend, what are you?'

'A man?'

'Yes, you are! And do not forget it!'

At Ben's school, I pointed out Mistress Sundae.

'You will walk past her,' I told him. 'You will catch her eye. You will smile. But you will not speak.'

He shook his head. 'I can't.'

'Why not?'

'Her friends are there.'

'So? Are they gorgons to turn a man to stone? Go!'

And to his credit, he went.

He did the same thing the next day. And the next. Every day for a week. And what do you think happened on the Friday afternoon? As Ben was walking out through the school gates? She followed in the dance, of course!

Here is what I heard.

Her. 'Hi.'

Him. 'Hi.'

Her. 'You're Ben, right?'

Him. 'Yeah.'

Her. 'Cool.'

'Do not slow down,' I said. 'Keep walking.'

Mistress Sundae has to skip to keep up.

Her. 'You look different.'

Him. 'Do I?'

Her. 'That's my bus. I have to go.'

Him. 'Ok.'

Her. 'Will I see you Monday?'

Him. 'Sure... Maybe.'

'You were perfect,' I said.

Ben was not convinced. 'I dunno.'

'Wait,' I said. 'You will see.'

Monday morning came. Sundae was waiting at the school gates.

'Hi, Ben!'

'Hi.'

'You're here.'

'Yep.'

'I thought... When you said maybe... But here you are!'

'Here I am.'

'Cool. There's my friend Amy. Come and say hi.'

I never said the conversation was riveting.

On Tuesday they ate lunch together.

On Wednesday they held hands.

On Thursday they kissed.

On Friday they kissed again.

I did not stay to watch. I am not a voyeur.

On Saturday they met in a nearby park.

On Sunday -

Ah... Every day should be a Sundae!

18 years.

I turned 19 on June 8th. To celebrate, I took my friends to my favorite pizza joint. I brought my Polaroid camera and took some pictures with them, and drove to a Circle K afterward to get some slushies. It’s a great day.

June 9th.

I get to work and it’s going well. I work with two of my favorite people and I’ve spent more of the shift laughing than anything else. I go to lunch.

“You aren’t in trouble or anything, but when you get home, mom and dad need to talk to you about something.”

I read it and I have to text my sister back. A million questions.

“Is it important?”

“Very.”

“Is it good important or bad important?”

“Bad. Don’t tell them I told you, you’re not supposed to know about this.”

“You’re making it sound like someone died. Did they?”

“No one died.”

“Why can’t you tell me what this is about?”

“It’s not good to read over text.”

I shrink.

My break ends and I head back out to the floor. I’m standing there and that’s all I do for a minute, and my co-workers notice and they ask how my break went and how I’m doing. I can’t lie, I can’t keep a straight face. I tell them everything. I tell them that something is wrong but that my sister won’t give me anything. I say that nothing has been wrong at home. There had been some hassle around my birthday because of issues getting me a cake and that I suspected my parents were mad at me.

“Sound like a divorce,” one of my co-workers said to me. I shook my head.

“It can’t be that,” I said. “They’ve been together through so much, you don’t understand. I haven’t noticed anything along the lines of divorce, and I feel like I definitely would if that’s what’s going on.”

“You think you’re moving again?” asked my other co-worker, and at that, I lowered my head. I’ve moved at least 7 times throughout my life. Just during Covid we spent a 5-month stint in northern Utah before coming back. The idea blinded me. I could hear their voices sigh and tell me we’re moving and that I’ll have to find a new job and say goodbye to my girlfriend and promise to come back whenever I get the chance. I reflect on the past week, I realize the reality of the situation.

“That sounds like that could be it,” I whisper out in defeat. I work in the center of the store, and right in the middle of the chaos of a Friday, I try not to cry. I try to forget the times I’ve moved, how everyone will react, how little time I’ve spent with so many people that I miss so dearly. I blame my eyes on my allergies and take a pill that I keep stowed in one of the cabinets at the booth.

“Look, man, even if you have to leave, I hope that this happens for a reason and that you prosper in your new environment.” I thank him, and I sniffle.

“Thanks, man.” I sigh. “You make a lot of sense. When bad things happen my dad will stare out the kitchen window. I’ve seen him do it before when someone close to the family died. My sister told me that no one died, but I’ve seen him do that again lately. He’s been sad looking, like yesterday. We played soccer in the house but he looked like something was bothering him, he was barely moving, but I didn’t want to say anything because I thought he was mad at me, and I didn’t want to hear about that while we were playing soccer.”

It’s a hard shift after that. I’m consumed by an outrageous plague of anxiety and both my co-workers jokingly tell me to give my sister a good beating when I get home because she’s scared me to death. It makes me laugh, they both get me to laugh in their own ways, and with their help I’m able to finish off the shift without much affliction. They stepped up to help me with any extra stress that could’ve come to accumulate, they cracked some jokes and even laughed at mine. I finally got feeling okay.

I clock out for the day at 5 since I opened, and when I get to the car, I then turn on my phone and look at my messages. My sister’s messaged me 3 times.

“Never mind,” she said. “It’s not going to happen anymore, they changed their minds and don’t want to tell you. When you get home I’ll still tell you, though.”

I’m able to breathe. I’m able to drive home and not worry that my anxiousness will get me thrown into a wreck on the commute back. In a lengthy voice-to-text note, I tell my sister that I appreciate the heads up but that it killed my mentality through the shift, and that if anything of the sort ever happens again to let me find out on my own. A couple minutes later, she texts back apologizing. I accept it.

I get home. I turn off the car and grab all my belongings, and once I put them in my room, I head over to my parents’ room. They texted as they heard me come in to head to their room.

I step inside and shut the door to keep out the cats. My parents are sat on the bed, my sister sat down on my dad’s office chair. They look like they’ve spent some time crying, even my dad. I’ve never seen my dad cry. I’m in the room, and I remember that my sister said they weren’t going to tell me what all was going on, but seeing them all in the room, I feel as though I’m about to hear it. But I don’t.

“You have a good day, love?”

“Yeah, it was okay,” I say.

“The cake’s ready at Cold Stone so we’re going to go pick it up in a minute. We had them write the thing you wanted on the top of it, crazy.” My mom said, and I chuckled, still anxious. “Just wanted to tell you that we’re getting your cake, I know you were wondering about that.”

“Oh okay, thank you,” I say. And I go to leave. But I look at my sister, and when before I had only seen her in my peripheral, this time I see her directly. She’s slumped in her chair, not crying or anything, but gloomy. I have never seen her look more depressed. It takes me a second to leave because I notice what a toll this secret has taken on her. I’ve never seen my sister look this way before, but there, in that chair, she was broken.

I leave the room and head to the bathroom. I’m sat down and I’m wondering, all over again, what it could be that I’m missing out on. What does my dad, my mom, my sister, everyone in the whole house know about that I don’t? And why does everyone look like they’re recovering from the same thing even though no one’s died and we’re apparently not moving?

A minute goes by, and my dad texts again.

“Can you come back to our room, please?” Butterflies. I can’t even laugh about it; when he said that, every emotion that I came under all day hit me back all at once. My body jittered out for a second and my head began to hurt. I knew in a few short moments what was about to happen.

I finish up. I wash my hands with soap and I step out and into my parents’ room, shutting the door behind me once again. When before they seemed lighthearted enough to be just about to step into public to pick up my cake, they now looked serious. It was time for business. I had no idea what room I had stepped myself into.

“Something has been going on for the past few weeks, you may have seen me act different or mama act different, I don’t know if you have, but we wanted to talk to you about what’s been going on.” I swallow. “Um..” My mom finishes his sentence.

“Mama almost left,” she says in a bluntness I’ve never heard before. I don‘t process what she’s said.

“To where?” I ask, and she slightly laughs. At this, I see my dad tear up, as he must have not too long ago, and he takes his glasses off.

“No, no. I..” She sighs, and something in me breaks as I stand still to listen.

“For the past few weeks I have had a lot of issues, and there’s been so much going on that I’ve had doubts with our relationship. And I’ve prayed and I’ve talked to my cousin and we’ve gotten closer.. and I was going to leave and move in with my cousin. He’s just getting out of a divorce and I got attached and that mixed with me being unhappy in the relationship, I wanted to just leave, and I was going to. Up until today..”

“We told my parents last night,” my dad cut her off. “They can’t believe me. I couldn’t believe it.” He looked over at my sister, she now having tears in her eyes. “She couldn’t believe it. None of your other siblings could believe it.”

“She woke me up yesterday crying,” my sister spoke up, talking about our youngest sister.

“Your brother was crying, and he looked up at me today and he asked me the one question we’ve all been asking this whole time, ‘Why?’ Why? How could this happen, how could she do this? And I didn’t have an answer. That’s what my parents asked me, how could this happen, and I had to tell them that I don’t know.” My mom, three feet to the side of him, was crying, and seeing my sister cry made my dad cry. I have never seen my dad cry. I cannot stand to cry in front of others, and I stand there, and nothing that anyone says processes. I’m standing there like a fucking scarecrow, only one that looks like his birthday time has been cut so incredibly short so suddenly that he’s reduced to what he’d look like without a face.

My mom talks and she apologizes, and she talks about her feelings but they don’t make sense to me and I cannot take in any of her words. She cries, my sister cries, and my dad cries. And everyone is incredibly sorry.

“We’ve been hiding this from you because we didn’t want to ruin your birthday,” she tells me, and I understand. “Today was officially going to be the day I was going to get things packed and I was going to leave. But.. I changed my mind. I want to stay with you guys. I want to be here. I can’t leave you.” Her tears come again.

“We were going to tell her parents tomorrow,” says my dad, and he shakes his head. “This..” He has tears coming again, and I have never seen my dad cry. “This is going to make us closer in our relationship,” he gets out as he’s holding everything back. And he hugs my mom, and I just watch as they hug, and I watch as my dad hugs me, and I watch as my mom hugs me. And I watch as they say I’m good to go and that they’ll leave for the cake. I head to my room and I lay myself down. The heat from the sun comes through my window, and I feel it but I don’t understand it, it seems.

I cry. I cry the whole time they’re out. I haven’t cried so much in years. Years. I used to keep track of reasons I’d cry, but this would take all the reasons for a spin. They get the cake, and of course it takes a while. But I’m still crying when they get back. I’m still hurting and wondering why like we all have. My brother in his bed just 6 feet from mine walks over and gives me a hug, and he tells me, “Mommy isn’t leaving us, Yousuf.” And he’s happy. He’s not crying. He feels safe again. But me, I’m hearing this for the first time, ans all my memories as their child and as an older brother flood back in, and all the pictures of me as a baby come to mind, and I give my brother a hug, and I cannot stop crying.

I love my parents. I love my family. I love the imperfections of life and I love who I am. But I have the hardest time processing change, and I have always been riddled with an overwhelming sense of needing protection and some sort of resemblance to what the past used to be. I have always need a friendly hand to hold, a kind person to talk to, and a healthy community where I can remain ignorant because I’m young and trying my hardest to be good. I can handle certain things and inconveniences, I can handle change sometimes and I can adapt to my surrounding, but these moments, these things that happened just weeks ago, will never fucking escape me. I have been on the edge of my seat sense, and I am in worry that at any moment, I family will cease to be what it has always been; The parents, the family, the life I love.

I don't remember very many birthdays before the age of, well, a few years ago. But there is one birthday that I remember that completely changed the way that I looked at my life. Its seemingly unimportant and I may be reaching for some sort of underlying message that doesn't even exist but here it goes:

I can't even recall how old I was turning or which birthday this was, but it was when my parents were still together. The morning was filled with chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream, calls from family members who sang to me on the phone, and I remember getting a limited edition American Girl Doll that looked just like me. She was brand new with light brown hair, and a few freckles- we even added earrings to her ears once I got mine pierced. I felt like we looked so much alike and we shared these traits that made me feel like I was so lucky to have such a great birthday. But once the day ended and the charade that was my birthday depleted, for another 365 days I played with this special doll.

As more and more birthdays went on I started to notice a snag in her clothing, small knots in her hair, and the coloring of her eyes starting to fade. It made me feel like my youth was slowly diminishing just like the freshness of this doll was. Since then, no birthday has felt quite as special, and I can't remember the last time that I truly felt like a carefree kid. Like someone who would wake up with no worries in her mind except whether or not Mom and Dad would make chocolate chip pancakes again or sing me happy birthday together again.

So to me, now birthdays sort of remind me of my American Girl Doll Molly. How we sold her at a garage sale to make more money for my college fund (which I apparently have to save real money for and work an adult job for), and how my childhood innocence seemingly left with her. And with age and birthdays coming and going, I'm constantly wishing I was just a carefree kid again and I didn't have to think about all of the complex things that life continues to throw at me. But I've learned that this life is unforgiving to time, and no matter how nostalgic we may feel towards a special edition doll or a morning full of sugary breakfast food, nothing will ever feel that carefree again.

I was running, feet slapping on hot pavement.

Somewhere in the middle of nowhere,

where addicts go to die in peace.

There was a trifle of complacency,

the public rife with the foulest of all its kind.

The tri-state area, the place of pealing skin and melting minds.

I ran, ran long till the pavement went cold,

till the nineteenth hour of circular wheels hit snowed roads.

And suddenly, I wasn't hurdling myself into the future,

counting birthdays like a prisoner counts days in confinement.

Thirteen candles unlucky.

Sixteen candles, two too late.

Nearly nineteen, my fear long turned hate.

And then gone.

Gone like the wish blown out, so long ago.

Genies were wished on like

candles blown breath upon.

A decade shot on by,

birthdays no longer counted like wishes on stars for sweet good byes.

Nearly thirty, forgetting what birthdays felt like.

Like confessions in a booth, of dark wishes dreamed upon.

Gods, birthdays aren't what I wish upon.

Days. Days are what I wish upon. Dream up on.

Fucking birthdays were my count down.

The count to my death or rebirth,

the time to my final hour or eternal escape.

Happy birthday, motherfucker.

I guess I lived for eternity, like I never thought.

Lacey listens.

The angel plays für Elise

cries away the night

lying somehow to please

laughs away the night

loving under the moon

sings away the night

longing for a happier tune.

A child is born, named her Elise

laughing, she listens to her song

and sings along-- la la la la la la la la la

grows up fast, pierces her nose

moves to California, tats her calf

listens to the Arctic Monkeys

has a gazing ball in her yard.

Today is her birthday.

Alone in her chair, lonely Lacey listens

The angel plays für Elise

cries away the night

I've deleted this paragraph four times, let's make it five. Remember when birthdays were fun, happy times? It's a loaded question, how many years I've graced this planet. I've contributed what I can, I'm older than I was then. There are many life lessons to learn, one is how to use the written word. I'll come back to this, I promise, after another decade of remorse, sorrow, discarded drafts and too much bourbon.

I was in my twenties once, living day to day, hoping to survive the decade without succumbing to pain. I hit thirty and realized I'm a third of the way through, if I am lucky. Perhaps it's all happenstance, a roulette of genetics. I take another sip of my drink and watch the condensation drip down the glass, another year in the bag, handed to me with a lemon slice on the edge.

We are all surviving, even if at different tempos. Each year is its own performance, percussion that continues. If the beat goes on, but no one is around to hear it, can you still call it music?

Are you listening to it?