Memory is tyranny
I wonder if he would be embarrassed that the one time I can’t help but remember him is when I hear Hootie and the Blowfish?
He probably wouldn’t as long as I didn’t tell anyone. That was always sort of the deal — he wasn’t embarrassed of us, as long as I didn’t really tell anyone. Until he told Sheri, of course, at our high school reunion, that I’d both taken his virginity and not been a virgin myself when I’d done so, knowing full well she’d walk from cluster to cluster of people to dime me out, but not knowing me enough that I was so far from the point of caring that people knew I had sex.
But he won’t know of this little betrayal, writing about him, remembering him singing along to “Let Her Cry” in his bedroom, watching his mouth intently thinking about how it felt on me, lying on his white comforter in the greying light of a late winter afternoon, all because Amazon suggested I get the 69 (harhar) cent MP3, because this month, it’s been 6 years since he died.
It’s funny to think of him gone, funny to think he’ll never call my parents house again to get my number (though it hasn’t changed in 15 years), never slyly proposition me or tell a tall tale to impress me, never realize that he never had to in the first place, never find ourselves old and grey and honest and in the same place at the same time. It’s funny to think that I will never be able to hear that song without seeing his face in my mind, wondering which version of him was him, and knowing that I’ll never know.