or just lately.”
I say, “I miss you.”
I ask if he’s missed me too,
then wait for his answer.
If that squirrel runs up that tree,
then his answer is yes.
If it stays on the grass,
his answer is no.
The squirrel doesn’t move,
and my breath catches in my throat.
After a moment,
it zips up the tree.
I smile and lie down
next to Brian.
I wish he could hold me
like he used to,
but he doesn’t.
The warm sun makes me drowsy
and I fall asleep on my side
next to Brian.
When I wake up, grass is imprinted
on my arm and leg.
I brush myself off,
but Brian doesn’t move.
I say, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I reach out to touch him,
and my fingers make contact
with words:
BRIAN DENNIS
DIED AGE SEVENTEEN
BELOVED SON AND FRIEND
I had a dream
that I was being buried.
Not buried alive exactly,
but buried
with a consciousness.
And I could see everything
happening aboveground.
I saw
the dirt being shoveled on top of me.
I saw
it being patted down smooth.
I saw
the mourners leave one by one.
Each time someone else left,
I cried out,
“Don’t leave me.
Don’t leave me here alone.
I don’t want to be
left alone
for forever.”
But there was no sound.
No words.
Sitting on the bench
across from the Dearly Departed,
I prop my elbows on my thighs
and put my chin in my hands.
I stare down at the ground.
Moss, grass, clovers.
Then I look up the hill
and survey the scene.
All the names and dates
on the graves are facing me.
Like faces looking into mine,
poised, ready to talk.
I can see my reflection
in one of the polished gravestones.
It’s blurry,
but it’s there.
When the sun goes behind a cloud,
I disappear.
The death book wants me
to write down everything I remember
about Brian—
all the small details.
I remember how
his dark eyelashes made his eyes seem so light
he always carried his sketchbook
he had a freckle right at the corner of his lips
he wore jeans that were a little too big
he always smelled like soap
he liked to quote from movies
his favorite sweatshirt had a hole in the side
he sometimes had a book in his back pocket
the hair on his arms was surprisingly soft
he thought Family Guy was the best thing ever
he made fun of me for watching reality TV
his nails were usually ragged
he put at least three packets of sugar in his coffee
he never seemed to wear matching socks
he was obsessed with Stanley Kubrick
he was always hungry
his teeth were perfectly straight
he was squeamish about reptiles
he got the chills whenever I kissed his ears
Fireflies blink
Morse code messages from Brian.
Crickets chirp
notes that when read on a scale
surely have meaning.
Unfortunately, I don’t speak
their language.
All this thinking about death
can’t be good for me.
I liked it better when I was
unaware of how my days are numbered.
That one day, maybe soon,
all of this will just stop.
It makes me wonder
about my life
and what I’m doing with it.
What will I never do?
Will I ever see the Egyptian pyramids?
I suppose that’s up to me,
but if I don’t see them now—
in this life—
I will never see them.
And what about school?
I’m stuck in school for one more year.
That will make fourteen years in total
of learning what someone else
has decided is important
so I can take some bullshit tests
that will decide what kind of education
I am worthy of.
Then it’s four more years of school
that are supposed to prepare me for a career—
one that is pretty much a mystery to me.
And what about Brian?
What did all his education get him?
How did knowing algebra help him?
Brian would have been better off
traveling the world rather than memorizing
information in textbooks.
As I am walking past the church
on my way to the cemetery,
I see Brian’s dad getting out of his car.
I stop.
I stare.
If he’s going to visit Brian,
I should come back later.
Give them some time
together.
But he doesn’t walk into the cemetery.
He walks toward the church doors,
which have a group of people around them.
I wonder what could be happening
at church at 7:00 p.m. on a Sunday night.
Maybe it’s a ser vice for Brian.
But why wouldn’t his mom be with his dad?
And where are all the people my age?
There are only adults.
That’s when I notice the hand-painted sign
on the church’s double doors.
AA
When I get to Brian I say,
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?
Did you even know?
Or did you know
and just not want to tell?
Maybe that’s something else
we had in common—
not telling the truth
about our dads.”
I take a deep breath and sit down.
My anger subsides.
After about an hour
of listening to my music on shuffle
and talking to Brian,
people begin filing out of the church.
That’s my signal
to leave Brian’s grave
and go back near the church doors.
I want to get a better look at Mr. Dennis.
Maybe even hear his voice.
Eventually, Brian’s dad comes out,
shakes some hands,
and gets some pats on the back.
Then, hands in his jeans pockets,
he walks into the cemetery.
I wish I could hear
what he is saying to Brian.
Or know what he is thinking.
I wish I could know their family stories,
see the insides of their photo albums.
I wish I could make new memories with them,
and that one day I could have been invited
for Christmas or Thanksgiving.
But that’s never going to happen now.
The best I can do
is come back next Sunday night
and see if his dad is here again.
Mayb
e I’ll work up the courage
to talk to him then.
I don’t have to wait
a week to see Brian’s dad again.
He’s at the deli a few nights later.
I’m buying a box of donuts,
and he’s at the counter ordering sandwiches.
Seeing him must be a coincidence,
but then I wonder
if it’s some kind of sign from Brian.
Maybe his dad has a message for me.
Maybe I have one for him
and don’t even know it.
I am desperate to hear Mr. Dennis’s voice.
But more so,
to hear his voice
directed to me.
But what I would say?
Maybe, “Hello,
I was a friend of Brian’s,
and I am sorry for your loss.”
That hardly seems appropriate
while standing in front of sliced meats.
But is there really ever a good place or time
to express grief?
When Mr. Dennis pays and walks by me,
I get lost in his eyes—
Brian’s eyes.
My mouth hangs open a little.
I say nothing.
In bed, I cannot sleep.
I think about Christmas
with my dad in LA.
Piles of presents are positioned
underneath a massive sparkling tree.
Lisa and Sage are running around the house,
high on sugar, draped in garlands.
My father keeps hugging me.
He kisses my forehead,
tells me how much I’ve grown
since the summer.
He asks how school is
and how dating is going.
I tell him school sucks
and that it’s gross
to talk to your dad about dating.
But he insists, tells me
that anyone who is important to me
is important to him.
But there isn’t anyone important
yet.
That night,
Lauren cooks a Christmas feast,
and after we eat, all five of us
squeeze onto the couch.
We watch Rudolph on DVD
and then sleep
sleep
sleep.
Lewis Armin
died on April 10, 1877.
He was 41.
Sarah Armin
died on July 27, 1896.
She was 68.
I suppose they were
husband and wife.
But they could have been
brother and sister.
The bottom of their stone says:
GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN
Maybe that was true in 1896
and for a while after.
But is that true now,
more than one hundred years later?
Is there anyone left
who remembers them?
Who will visit Brian
in one hundred years?
Who will remember him then?
Who will remember me?
What’s the point of having all this
if you are forgotten?
The death book wants me
to make a Question Jar.
It says to write down my questions,
put them in the jar,
and then let them go.
It tells me that this is not
about finding answers.
That it’s just about
the process of asking.
I pull a glass jar out of the recycling bin,
rinse it out, and then dry it off.
Next I take a piece of paper
and rip it into small strips.
Then I start writing.
Why did this happen?
I crumple it up and toss it in the jar.
Is there a heaven?
I crumple it up and toss it in the jar.
When will it not hurt like this?
I crumple it up and toss it in the jar.
Did Brian actually care about me?
I crumple it up and toss it in the jar.
Can Brian hear me when I talk to him?
I crumple it up and toss it in the jar.
I still feel like shit.
I’m getting sick
of hearing my own voice.
I need a sign.
Something from Brian
telling me what to do.
I position myself so I am
facing Brian squarely.
I sit up straight,
cross my legs like in yoga,
rest my upturned palms on my knees,
and I wait
and wait.
I wait
for another car to backfire,
for a butterfly to fly by,
for a bee to sting me,
for something.
Anything.
And I wait
and I wait
and I wait.
There is nothing
except the sound
of birds and cars.
I stand up and grab my stuff.
I am so mad
I can’t even look at Brian.
At home I am as furious
as if Brian and I
had gotten into a fight.
I throw my bag on my desk,
and it knocks into a stack of college catalogs.
As they spill onto the floor,
a menu from Renzo’s, covered in doodles,
falls too.
From across the room
I recognize the drawings.
I dive for it
as if some great gust of wind
might rip through my bedroom
and blow it away forever.
My mouth goes dry.
I trace my finger over the ink lines
as if tracing the veins in Brian’s arm.
This drawing isn’t new.
It isn’t from beyond the grave.
Brian was doodling on this menu
while he was in my room one afternoon.
But it can’t be a coincidence
that I am finding this now.
This is definitely my sign.
Part Three
I walk through the door at Renzo’s.
I’m not sure
what I am supposed to be doing
or what I am supposed to be looking for.
So I just stand there,
by the counter.
Every time the door opens behind me,
I turn to see who it is.
My heart hopes
that Brian will walk through that door
and tell me that all this has been a mistake.
But I know that’s not going to happen.
So I wait
and stare.
After a few minutes a voice breaks my trance.
“Can I help you?”
asks a guy from behind the counter.
Annoyed that he has disrupted my thoughts,
I just shake my head.
I need to keep looking for signs.
But he starts talking again,
“’Cause, you know,
if you like standing around here so much,
you should apply for the waitress job.”
I don’t even process what he’s said.
He is a car honking in the background.
He is an annoying person talking during a movie.
He is a mosquito buzzing in my ear.
I try to focus,
keeping an eye out for signs.
They could come in any form.
“It could be the change
you’re looking for,” he says.
That snaps me to attention.
For the first time since I came in,
I really look at him.
He’s tall and thin,
an
d maybe a little older than me.
He’s got light hair and brown eyes,
and a glob of pizza sauce on his shirt.
“A change?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says.
“Working a few days a week,
making some extra money,
and, of course, all the pizza you can eat.”
“A change?” I ask again.
But this time
I am saying it to myself
and not to him.
The next morning,
I show my mom the job application.
“A pizza place?” she asks skeptically.
“I’m glad you decided to get a job,
but wouldn’t you rather work at a clothing store?
What about the boutique Joy’s working at?
Or babysitting like Marissa?”
“No. I have this feeling
that working at Renzo’s is gonna be good.”
“A feeling?
Well, if this is what you want…
then I think it’s great.”
I go up to my room
and fill out the application.
The top half is easy.
I write in my name,
address, birthday,
social security number,
and school info.
The bottom half is harder:
work experience and skills.
I don’t really have either.
I’ve babysat,
but I don’t think that counts.
So under skills I just write:
I’m really good at math.
I’m a little nervous.
I’ve never done anything
like this before.
In fact, I haven’t done anything
in a long time.
On the way to Renzo’s,
I pass the cemetery.
I don’t stop to see Brian,
but do nod in his direction.
I’ll be back later.