The Wanderers- Beginning

When we walked, we kicked up dust. It changed over the miles- floating up and painting the air in front of us a different color. It was a secret road marker. Red earth: now we are here.

The “now” was important, the “here” less so. We hurried past the here to another and then another now.

The dust got in our eyes, on our faces, between our toes. It made Court cough. It tried to mark us and claim us as its own. It wanted us to slow down and remember that we were of it- connected and indebted, even if we closed our eyes to its sting or washed it from our bodies.

I doubt any of the others thought of the changing landscape as anything other than miles between, from. But I’d been fighting a guilt ever since we’d left home- left our own places. The earth made me think of mud pies in Stella’s front yard after school, and the stains on the knees of Court’s baseball pants when he’d come home from Little League. It made me think of the grass and pebbles that absorbed Jex’s mother's weight when she fell, the Saturday her body stopped working. The earth made me think of the store bought flowers my father brought my mother, the ones that died in their vase and turned to dust when he left. When he walked, away from our grass and our dirt and our sky- away from us.

We’d left because we didn’t feel any reason to stay. No one else seemed to doubt this over the weeks. But I’d made the first footstep, the one echoed and erased as the three people I loved most in the world followed me away.

The dust made me think of our mothers. As emissaries, it begged me to reconsider, to not lead my friends so callously away from the earth that held memories of scraped knees, spilled lemonade, and heavenly chocolate pies made just by adding water.

We were convinced that going was our only answer- that our footsteps away would erase something. But over the miles, I began to wonder what exactly was being erased.

Step one

We walk across life on paths created by things we love. Some people love so much, that their path is wide and safe, if they trip, it's over their own feet--they laugh a little and keep walking.

Some people don't love enough...or don't trust that what they love will hold their weight. Their paths have breaks and gaps, and to keep going they have to make huge leaps. Convincing themselves to leap can take a little while, so their progress is nervous and unpredictable, full of pauses and then beautiful moments of bravery. These people often don't notice the simple fact that when they jump, they always land safely on their next step.

We walk across life on paths created by things we love. I am picky in my stepping-stones. I build my path of moments where I witness complete and beautiful truth. I wait for these seconds, I live for these seconds. When everything else is gone, and I'm looking at a person who is using the only words they mean. Without anything else. When something is thrown. When arms are put over a head that shakes and shakes, I don't even know what I'm doing. When someone gets something they never, never thought they would get, and they look up and for one second, it's complete triumph, complete surprise. When someone says I can't, or it's over, or they're gone. I'm terrified. I'm trying, so hard. I'm sorry. I walk on gathered reminders that these moments happen. When the words are just simply... the only words there are. It's not dependable...doing it this way. I might never find another stepping-stone again. But I wait. I sit down at the end of my path, and I wait.

Because the things I love, more than anything else in the world, are the words that matter.

The Wanderers- Court

I used to play baseball. It was one of those things- you did it because it was the fall and it was baseball and your dad used to play. It was 8th grade, they didn't have a pitcher for the team and they made me learn. I think they figured I was reliable. I got kind of good, too. When I threw the ball, it went where I wanted it to go. I wasn't one of those messy pitchers, with the bounces and the out of control fly-aways that make a catcher swear under his breath and go running. It wasn't anything amazing, I'm just telling you, but I thought it was okay and the coaches would stand together sometimes and stare at me. I pretended not to notice...but I did notice.

Then in high school I went out for the team because i hated basketball and to be honest... I didn't want to go home after school. It felt better...not to be home. You can forget about a lot when you're out running around and pretending to be so important, with your stats and bending the bill of your baseball cap and rubbing dirt into your hands so the ball won't slip. It wasn't something I thought about much, but now it seems like one of those effortless times, a good time that you don't notice until after. I guess there's always an after.

And then one day...well, it was in a game. Not one I was worried about, I mean... not one we, or the coaches or whatever...well we didn't think we'd lose. We didn't lose. I mean...well, okay, I hit a kid. It was the 4th inning and everything was fine and then my foot slipped a little on the mound right when I was releasing...and he was turning into the pitch, this sort of fat kid, and the ball hit him on the shoulder. I don't know...it couldn't have hurt that much, it wasn't like anyone was pointing a speed gun at me or anything because I was just that good, so I don't even know. But it doesn't matter. Do you understand? The game and the kid and why it happened and if it hurt, that stuff doesn't matter. I finished the game and told my coach I had too much homework. I didn't play again. I shut down, I didn't play, and that's it. That's all. It was fine. I didn't play ever again.

But...it was because of the hit. I kept hearing the sound it made--like a clean thwump against his back, that meaty part of his shoulder. And his eyes went a little wide, just for a second. And it was because of me. I was afraid...I thought I might... no. I was just afraid I would hit someone again. Maybe not the next game or whatever, not soon enough that someone would notice, but it might happen. I was afraid I would hit someone. And that I would do it on purpose.

No one would have noticed, they don't see those things in me, and I'm good at it. At being this person. But I kept hearing the sound the ball made when it hit him. And...and I liked it.

So I walked away, fuck, of course I did. I'm not some renegade baseball assasin. But do you know what I mean? I was fucking terrified of that feeling. Of hurting someone and being glad. Being glad I was on that end. Being glad that the pain wasn't ON me, wasn't INSIDE me. Fuck, what would you have done?

If anyone asks, it was the homework. I just...I make myself remember that I didn't do it again. I DIDN'T. When I think about it. Which...well, I don't think about it. But you asked about the worst in me.

Missing

They explained what happened to him. For an hour and a half.

But in a memoir about someone who killed themselves, the only one who can really explain is always missing.

Not them

You and I are not the people that we will end up loving. That's something we can try to change, I can try to change, but it's something we understand for whole moments at a time. This is not that.

You are my friend. My friend.

This was meant to be a thank you.

Remember

You are not a rock.
You are not a stone.
You are not about to explode
or disappear.
You will not sink into the ground.
You cannot sit in the closet for a day.
You cannot hide under your bed until everything is quiet.

You can want to be that or do that, you can feel like that.

But then remember, come back. Remember. And then come back.