We don't speak. I climb into his truck as if guided
by an invisible hand, as if we've known
each other our whole lives. And we have. The rain
picks up as we drive, and the street signs
change color, then shape. When we reach the turnoff,
the road is light grey, almost transparent,
like a worn-out piece of paper. He leads me up
the concrete steps and into the house.
I take it all in: The paint-wrecked furniture. The slurry
for casting, sand melted down in a fluidized bed,
shelves lined with bronze objects. Backyard overrun
with scrap metal and half-finished sculptures.
An electricity moves between us, as if time were a map
that's been leading me back to this town
made peaceful by rain, and all those years without him
seem like a joke, bruised and piled
together like plums in a bowl. Outside, he throws open
the garage to show me his father's Corvette,
which he's kept in good condition. It sparkles
like a dark forest, the rearview mirrors
like miniature lakes. I remember our long rides
through wealthy neighborhoods, how his dad
let me and Anna hang off the back of the convertible
and slide around turns, the mansions
boring compared to the bounce and burn of the speeding car.
Hop in, he says, and I do.
I feel safe with him, whooshing along the back roads,
the secret of our childhood a rope between us,
so when we stop at the cemetery and get out to walk,
I stay close at his side. What is it like,
I ask him finally, when we reach the headstone
with his name on it. Lilies have grown up
around the grave, and he picks one and puts it in my hair.
It's quiet, he says. His hand
is huge on top of mine. His loneliness moves
through my body like a pulse, and I can't remember
whether it was prescription pills or heroin, suicide
or an accident. It doesn't matter anymore.
In this version, he's alive. We have our whole lives
ahead of us.
—Catherine Pond, Fieldglass
