Memories and Matches

Memories of him burn a destructive burn. Any lingering thought, any slight remembrance of his laugh or glimpse of his smile turns into a wildfire. A single memory is all it takes. Uncontrollable, it roars through my skull and down my spine, leaving only rubble and ruin. My heart is left scorched and brittle, and blood no longer flows through my veins. I am left empty. All that remains are burnt-up, emotionless ashes and my old hollow bones. I am a façade, a skeleton. All of this because of a memory--one miniscule match in the middle of a forest.

**So, I'm not actually depressed or heart-broken or anything. I'm actually quite content with life. I just felt inspired by the wildfires happening all around. And breaking hearts always make for a good metaphor.

A Moment in the Minivan

So, I turned into my neighborhood today in my parents minivan, taking my time because… well… I was driving a mini-van, and stopped at the stop sign to the main road was a pretty blonde girl. She couldn’t have been older than 17 or 18 years old, but the expression on her face aged her considerably. Her cheeks were red with crying, her eyes puffy and filled with agony. Just the sight of her made me sad. I wanted to open my window and scream, “Don’t cry!!! It’s gonna be okay! Let me help you!!” Just as I was looking away to continue down the road to my house she stuck her head out of her open window around to one of the houses and screamed, “I LOVE YOU!” My window was up, the air conditioning blaring. I couldn’t hear anything except for “safety dance” playing on the radio. Despite the noise, her exclamation resonated throughout my body. I followed her line of sight and found her staring at a boy standing in a driveway. He looked like a miniature Ryan Lochte with his strong jawline, sandy brown hair, and tan skin. He was wearing plaid pajama pants and a dark blue t-shirt. And he was wearing pain. You could see it in the way his body leaned against his car for support, his sunken head and lowered eyes. He couldn’t meet her stare, and only acknowledged her cry with a bob of the head. As she pulled away, turning right out of the neighborhood and out of his life, he looked up, his shoulders sagged, and he turned to walk back into the house. In this five-second glimpse into these kid’s lives, my heart broke a thousand times. Every memory I had ever had of saying, “Goodbye, I LOVE YOU,” flashed across the 62” Plasma plastered in the center of my brain. I was reminded, in glorious high-definition, how much each goodbye really hurt, how much of me left with each tear, and how shriveled up and dead I felt once they were gone. I don’t know their story. I don’t know their names, or what was actually happening. But I did know. I knew them. In that moment of pain and ripping and torture and driving away from the person you love, I knew them. She was me, and he was every guy I have ever loved.