Hindsight
Dad and Scott carry the refrigerator into his dorm room
where mom makes the bed, smoothing the sheets
and folding hospital corners with motherly precision.
Corey and I sit on the bean bag chair contemplating
potential line width and dimensions
of releasing boredom and staying out of the way.
Dad has tears in his eyes and Corey whispers-
"that refrigerator must be heavy."
I watch as Scott hugs mom, then dad;
I listen as he tells Corey to practice his soccer skills,
"maybe then you'll beat me next time we play."
Corey heard "maybe then you'll beat me"
while the words that stick with me are
"next time we play."
Scott held me long and tight
like he wanted to tuck this moment away,
or maybe he wanted me to tuck it away.
To a fourteen year old with a high school career
of invincibility to be felt, four years is infinity.
A boy whoops and pumps his fist from down the hall
as we look and see him waving out a window
to his parents driving away.
Scott lets me go and gives a sheepish shrug of apology
for his hall mate because we both know,
he feels the same way.
I hold Corey's hand as we walk to the car
because that is what I need to be these next four years.
In the passenger seat my mom holds a box of tissues,
and in the rear-view mirror I can see dad's red eyes.
I put my arm around the back of Corey's seat
and whisper in his ear.
And now it's me.
I'm gone but I'm not whooping
like the boy on Scott's hall when his parents rolled out,
what noise did he make after a day on his own,
after a week, a month, a year?
I'm on my third year and I'd still take a ride
in my parent's Volkswagon anytime I could,
just to walk through my house barefoot
When Corey looks at me I hope he knows I still think
about that day we became Scott's pen pal
and each others siblings.
It wasn't about Scott leaving home,
but holding onto the four years that me and Corey
still had...
so what is it now?
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