Marble

In a dark, recessed attic corner, I'm sitting on unfinished planks. My mind is reliving 1993. When I moved into this house, number 14 on Virginia Street, I shuttled our box, with its pictures of us, poems by me, and funny gifts from you up the two levels of steps and into the crook of the wall. I pushed the thoughts away. Over the years the box was slowly buried by cookbooks, photo albums, and novels.

Yet today, looking for an extension cord to light my family's Christmas tree, I thrust my hand into this box, hoping for the coarse feel of bound and ridged wire. Instead my hand grazed a small circular object, and curious, I closed my hand, lifting it out. Air freshener. Colorado Cherry in a can. The past rushed over me; slapping my face fast and hard. You were in that box, my piece of your broken heart. I don't blame it all on myself. I know that it was your dad too that piled the fuel and struck the match. One at a time, we sabotaged you and your pursuit of love.

Still, I will never forget sitting in the bed of the Chevy, telling you I was finished. You emptied your face and drove away; I heard the song-- the one you play every time you lose a marble, every time you are left alone. I rode home in Allison's car with the windows open and my tearstained face in the wind. There I sang too, and wished for my tactless words to never have reached the air (I am sorry). Impulsively seventeen. Scared and running away.

Looking down at the can, I remember riding around in the black truck, windows rolled down and cherry-scented air blowing our hair. I think of all your silly nicknames for me and that one I had for you. Hey Hunkaburninlove. We had a song that made no real sense as to why it was ours, and a number and a symbol (It didn't matter what they were because everything I saw made me think of you. Texas, the color red, lemonade, even myself in the mirror- you thought I was perfect- you were always on my mind).

All those things stayed the same for months or maybe years after I broke your adoring heart. But the worst thing of all is that I still can't explain myself, even after all this time. What possible explanation did I concoct for running scared? When I finally grew up I realized that no one is perfect; then I knew you were so close.