Aristophanes Talks of Cartwheels

Aristophanes Talks of Cartwheels

You’re beautiful. I should have told you either way.

Peaches, you’d been sick for so long -

 I hope you’re feeling better.

“Tell her she looks good tonight,”

Her friend had said. Clueless.

How could she not look stunning?

Splashes of rose covered a white, thigh length skirt that suffocated the desert night.

Peaches, do people treat you well?

Your 21^st birthday -

When I arrived, unexpectedly, your face lit up.

Regressing sound, crowd milling about falling away within your embrace.

When will I ever be home again?

You had sex with some army man and his tattoos that night.

Peaches, I hope you screamed when he fucked you. I hope it hurt.

Months before - fireflies in the yard, powdered nights on that rickety porch.

It dripped down our throats - It tasted like nail polish. Your body shook.

Our cigarettes’ embers floated in the night, the blistering heat.

My head in your lap;

A home.

Peaches, I’m sorry about what I said. I hope he didn’t hurt you.

Peaches,

I couldn’t hold your pain anymore so I left.

Hopefully you remember New Years,

Remember lights flashing through windows; remember my head on your shoulder. Remember,

I tried to help you but never could – We’d been sick for too long.

            Do you still remember your nickname? Do you remember, Peaches? I’m sorry; I should’ve handled it differently. Sitting here now, I can see you the last time we met. You walked around the side of that angular, glass building where we’d worked. Such memories linger, tableaus frozen somewhere like fossilized stone in my core; I was perched at one of the red picnic tables on the building’s side as Helios, the day’s unwavering Texas sun, assaulted me, something I wasn’t accustomed to as I’d been born and raised in the Pacific Northwest, a fresh transplant to the desert. The whole placed smelled like truffle oil and baking bread and gurgling deep fryers; I sometimes worried that I’d pack on weight just working there, inhaling the kitchen’s fumes for hours on end.            I looked up from my food, shielded my eyes, and saw your outline burning in the sun, a golden apple suspended upon the tree guarded by the faithful Hesperides. As my eyes focused, I was able to see blue fabric hugging your body, the black and white stripes of that preposterously large sun hat atop your head, and the darkly pale, sun-kissed skin that looked so much healthier than it had before. You’d been sick for so long.

            I never found out if it was solely the drugs destroying your body, or bad diet, or an actual “illness”. I suppose they’re all illnesses at the end of the day; it was probably a combination of the three that kept you in-and-out of work, in-and-out-of hospital rooms.            Regardless, as you walked into view that afternoon, years ago now, I was angry that you’d taken all that money I gave you for a down payment on a new apartment and spent it on blow. I was lost in that city you’d left without a word, without a goodbye, without a sound; my mind dissipated and scattered across the flatness of Texas in wake of your absence. I never saw you again after that day among the picnic tables, and I still wonder, as I examine the tableau, the sun’s rays molding in your hair, ripples in the surface of the beer below me, if I made a mistake staying silent.

            I sit back home in Washington watching the sunset over the bay. The vibrant colors of the retreating sphere splash a patchwork quilt pattern across the waves. I wonder, Peaches, if you’d like Boulevard Park? I wonder if the sun was the same in Texas today?

            Peaches always weasels her way into my thoughts. It’s far too easy to only remember the lies and the drugs and the cigarettes and sleepless, teeth-grinding nights, but I don’t want those to be the only impressions one has of her. I don’t want her to only be thought of like that; I want other memories of Peaches to keep. Here, I’ll share this one as well. Only a snippet, just a peek; the real one is mine.

            New Year’s Eve, 2014: the road slithered north and streetlight after streetlight passed above us, each one moving across the night sky’s fabric like shooting stars, needles threading through the black. We sat in the back seat, Peaches in the middle and myself on the right. Someone passed out in the front seat, head nearly hanging out the window, as Peach’s sister drove the ugly, teal, Chevy Malibu along the asphalt. Windows open, warm air danced throughout the car. I couldn’t hear anything outside the rush of wind and soft pounding of blood in my ears as I rested my head on your shoulder and your tawny, golden brown hair flailed in the breeze. The strands looked like pieces of a spider’s webs upset and disrupted by the impending storm. Your face lit up every few seconds as the streetlights flashed above, fixed in the desert sky. I’ll patiently wait for the end, when life flashes before my eyes, so I can be there again. I desperately want to see the storefronts and trees, the street signs and roads that were lost in the irreparable desire to melt into you that new year’s night.

            We spent so many evenings together, and we shared too many secrets. We talked without end. There were too many drugs, and we drank every night: bottle after bottle, bourbon never tasted so sweet. I’ve sobered up since, well, relatively, as much as anyone can, and let me tell you, alcohol dependence, nicotine cravings, and violent, vomit filled nights of amphetamine withdrawals pale in comparison to the void I felt when you left, Peaches. By now I’ve forgotten what color your eyes were. I’ve forgotten those nights of Bacchic revelry deep in the heart of Texas, and I’ve forgotten what it means to chase sauntering fireflies through the yard with you as a big red sun goes to sleep, but please, God, don’t let me forget your voice. Don’t let me forget the way you said “peaches”.