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“Hello, Salem.”
This isn’t how I expected to meet you, six feet under and a stone atop your buried remains.
I place these bouquet of black roses at your grave. Your grave.
I never wanted to do that. I wished I never had to do that.
Here we are anyway.
“It’s been two years, hasn’t it? I was fifteen then, when we last spoke. I’ll be seventeen in June.”
I feel stupid, talking to you like this, even more so that she’s watching me. I can sense her curiosity, and even worse her pity digging at the back of my head.
I continue talking to you.
“I remember that day a lot. I remember waking up at around seven, and running to the train station so I could greet you,” I snort at that memory, “You scowled at me, like you always do when I hug you. I know you hate physical affection but I was—what did you call it again? Ah, an insolent brat.”
As much as you hated it you still hugged me back, albeit not as affectionate. That mattered a lot to me growing up. You never made me feel as if I was a burden, never made me feel like I didn’t matter. Never made me feel as if I was unloved.
“We went back to my house, you had a rest while I made us lunch. We ate in the living room, casually watching TV and I had my feet propped up on the table.” You never judged me for that, not like my parents would have.
“Then we walked around the neighborhood and caught up with each other. You told me about your new colleague—and never in my life had I heard you describe anyone with such hatred. It was fucking hilarious. And I on the other hand, trying and failing to be nonchalant, nervously confessed to you about my sexuality. I told you I was gay, and you being you just said ‘Finally realized it, haven’t you?’ I just remember being half-mad that you already knew, and half-relieved that you still accepted me.”
I smile, a small one, but still a smile indeed. My mother and father—Natasha and Landon would have been so quick to tell me all the usual homophobic bullshit. ‘It’s just a phase’, ‘What if people hear about this? I never raised my son to be a shirt-lifter!’, ‘Have you no shame?’ and God, I just cringe because I can hear their voices loud and clear in my head.
“We headed to the port, because there was this bookshop you always liked. Old Joe still works the till, I visit there still to buy this old fantasy rom-com series. You would’ve hated it so much, I wish I brought it so I could read you my favorite passage.” I huff, “It’s so sweet and sugary, I’m surprised those pesky ants haven’t found it yet.”
Your friend snorts from behind me. Ah, I forgot she was there. You never spoke much about your work back here. But I could tell when you’ve mentioned her once or twice that you respected her, viewed her as a mentor, and if you liked someone then they must have been a good person. I trust your judgement of character.
I look back at her with curiosity. She tucks her long graying hair behind her ear and looks at me, a small grin adorning her face. “He would’ve hated it, I assure you. There was a Valentines’ Day event held every year, but not once did I see Salem smile when it happened. Dare I say it, that man seemed allergic.” She finishes with a small chuckle. I can’t help but laugh, mostly because her observations were right.
We fall into a comfortable silence, wind and the rustling of leaves are the only sounds I hear. I look back to you, more specifically your grave. I reach out to touch the smooth marble and trace my fingers on the engraved letters. You were only thirty-eight. Life is so fucking unfair sometimes. Good men like you don’t deserve to die. And—oh for fuck’s sake I’m tearing up. I’m tearing up and I can feel you rolling your eyes right now. You bastard.
I take my handkerchief from my jacket and wipe my eyes. You’d smack the back of my head with a roll of news paper if you were here right now. But you’re not, so I settle by rubbing circles on the back of my neck with my hand.
“We really didn’t do much that day, didn’t we?” I ask you silently, “Just walking around and speaking, about anything, about everything. You were always that someone who I could talk to for hours on end. I considered you my very best friend.” By the end of my (disgustingly) sentimental spiel my voice becomes choked with tears. I take a moment to breathe, because I don’t want to cry just yet, not when I haven’t told you everything I want to say.
“For dinner that day, we were supposed to go for curry. Unfortunately I forgot it was closed on Sundays, so no curry for us, obviously. We could’ve walked a couple more blocks to get to that other curry place instead, but I just dragged you home so I could make dinner myself.”
I wipe my eyes again before I could continue.
“I made that Chicken Parmesan that you claim to hate, but you always clean your plate. We ate in silence then, and you helped with the dishes after. After that, we sat on the couch again, and — do you remember what we talked about?” I pause for a moment, “I hope you did because I think I would’ve slapped you if you hadn’t.”
The wind stops and our surroundings go even more quiet. I can hear the sound of my own breathing now. I wonder if you can hear what I’m about to say.
“I want to thank you, for-“ I come up short, because of course I can’t stop my tears, “For essentially being there for me, being my friend, my confidant, and well, basically my parent.” No stopping these tears now; the dam has broken.
“For accepting me, and taking care of me, better than they ever have. Do you remember before you left that night, before—“ Fuck, I’m sobbing. And I can’t stop. I miss you, Salem. I miss you so fucking much.
“You promised me, that after everything was over, we would go fishing. And you made me promise in return that no matter what — and I didn’t understand at the time why you made me do this — no matter what I shouldn’t cry for you. And I did promise, you did too.” I choke out a broken laugh that turns quickly into a sob.
“I guess we both broke our promises, huh?”
Your friend, Pamela, Pammy, rubs soothing circles on my back as I cry my eyes out. Her presence is comforting, and I feel embarrassed because this poor woman has to deal with my grieving. She wraps her arms around my shoulders and I (embarrassingly, might I add) tuck my head into the crook of her neck, and we stay like that for a while, just holding each other.
When I’ve finally regained a bit of my composure, I turn back to you, eyes red and gleaming. “I regret not telling you I love you, because I didn’t know it was the last time we’d ever talk. I wanna say it to you now, though, that I love you. I love you, Salem. I love you, dad.”
The wind picks up again, a cold soothing breeze. I imagine it’s you, weirdly soft and loving, stroking my cheek and telling me it’s alright. I feel a bit lighter now, just a tiny bit. It still hurts a ton, but my chest feels much less constricted.
And I miss you. I think I always will.