Learning

July 16, 2003

The night was dark, but I didn't sleep well those nights.
The phone was turned off, the cable was shut off,
and my aunt was tired of me living rent-free.
I sat in the cold room, wondering how long before
the electricity and gas would be shut off.
I refused to do anything beyond the basics
of feeding, washing, and clothing myself.
Then he would knock on the door, and I would smile.
Sometimes I thought I'd better just go to bed.
Sometimes I thought he would not be coming again.
For several weeks, though, the one a.m. knock came.
I'd open the door, and he'd be in his usual,
entirely black outfit with his black shoes.
I'd dress similarly, if only to blend in with the dark.
There were few words, though we seemed to
be speaking in more than just spoken sentences.
We passed the trees, walked down to Lila Avenue,
peered at the darkened restaurant, the darkened stores,
the closed library, and the empty parking lots.
We probably spent more time looking at our feet
than at those things, because I knew every crack.
We weren't intimidated by the sign that said,
"Cemetary closes at dusk," as we walked right on in.
I think we dared the ghosts and the goblins to come out.
Nothing ever happened on the nightly walks, though.
No one ever came after us, to yell at us to leave, too.
I remember saying, "Maybe they think we're the ghosts.
Maybe that's why they don't bother us when we walk here."
He smiled and added, "I can see the headlines now,
'Ghosts seen in cemetary at 1:30 a.m. every night.'
Maybe they'll photograph us from afar and we can be famous.
The ghosts of Greenlawn Cemetary."
We would walk back out into the night, back past
all the businesses, and then past the trees uphill,
until I'd face the apartment building once again.
We sat in the parking lot, sometimes, afterward,
until, inevitably, my temporary other half would leave.
In the morning, there were sometimes presents left
on the doorstep, from him, as he went down to his classes.
A tape of recording artists from ABBA to Diamanda,
or a doll painted up as a satanist, or various
inside joke sort of presents that frightened my neighbors.
I don't remember when these things stopped, though perhaps
it was when I moved further down the road to the efficency.
The impression of those warm nights is ever shrined
in my mind as a monument to someone who tried
to make me believe I was wanted and loved, when it seemed
that so few were willing to help me believe in myself
at the most terrifying time of my entire life.
Today, I remember those nights to forget that he's gone.
I'm spending time on the thoughts, dusting off each
and every single one of the little idols of him
that are piled in the corner of my brain, just to feel
for a moment that those days weren't completely worthless.