I was sitting at my desk doing an assignment,


I had to make a list.
I had to write down all my memories
the ones that came to mind
and the ones that haven’t in a while.

I know you wouldn’t ever do this, but really,
you should try it.
Truly, I was a little ****** at first.
(Let’s be honest there are better stories to tell)
I guess we can assume that I chose not to think
of preceding life events that led me to now.
Consciously speaking.
Maybe I was blocking them out, but I’m no shrink.

I was always curious, you see,
but the type of curious that gets you into trouble,
The type of kid-like-curiousness that makes you stare at a fake
not fake, fake, not fake, fake, not fake cactus
for thirty minutes in your moms office waiting for her to finish her meeting
before you decide to touch it.
I was five and found myself irreparably damaged
barred from making any future decisions on my own,
in fear that I’d be left crying again
with a prickled, throbbing finger ,
a ***** I couldn’t have possibly have predicted.

It looked fake.

And there we have it,
I don’t have ESP.
And from then on I had a new motto.
This came from a fable that my dad told me,
The night I touched the cactus,
The Tortoise & The Hare.
It had a moral, but I never gave a **** about winning the race,
or being slow and steady.
I just wanted someone else to touch the cactus first next time
to see if it was real and I could have the designated shoulder
to lean on when they started crying,
hyperventilating.
Maybe they could successfully avoid the fetal position
and the rocking, to and fro, in corner,
waiting for the fashionably late question of “Are you okay?”
And for the inevitable lie;
“Yeah”.

I’m really not cut out for the whole consoling, thing.
Or taking care of anyone for that matter,
I’ve got shaky hands.

Remember when I told you about my baby cousin
That was born on the 22nd of June
(my Moms birthday too.)
She was gorgeous and I wanted one.
A beautiful baby girl and although I had just nine years
and she had nine weeks,
I entered her room secretly, I held her like she was my own.
I followed all the rules, payed close attention
and supported the fragile skull of a life-like doll.
I turned around myself to peer at myself as a mother in the mirror,
I bumped her head
on the corner of her white crib,
she cried.
I cried.

And when I found out months later,
that she had Autism,
I cried
in my room
with a secret.
Do they know?
Do they have to know?

I always do this: touch things
that I know will hurt me,
irreparably hurt others.
Should I start living in a plastic bubble?

When I wrote this all down,
It was years after I told you
in my backyard,
while we were just kids ,
secretly sharing my dads Budweiser, then.

I hope you know I didn’t think about this much,
until I wrote it in down in my notebook.

And then again when I wrote it on Microsoft Word.

As I changed the font to something that seemed less
melodramatic.

I’m sure that before I send this to you
I’ll read it and check it for errors,
Spelling mistakes, grammar mistakes...
Maybe I should cook you a steak and send it
instead,
rare.

So anyway, I wanted you to know
that one time
I hesitated,
and the time after that,
and that one other time, I won’t forget.

I couldn’t talk to you after.
I thought
I knew what love was.

I have come to understand "love"
after watching a bit of Casablanca.
But I refuse to see the whole thing alone,
“Here’s looking at you kid.” has been branded
in my memory.

And every time I fast-forward to the end
                                                      ­       and watch that same part. I tell myself its
okay to let go, let "love" go;
to wave goodbye.

I’m still looking for someone to watch the whole thing with.

I’ve become accustomed to waiting.
And I know you don’t deserve that.
Hope you are well.
Take care,
Me.