#caleb hamilton

Minnesota Twins Recap vs Detroit Tigers - August 3rd, 2022

Talking to you is like learning to walk. I have already done it once, and I will probably do it again. Still, I keep tripping. My grandfather spent 3 weeks in a coma after a horrific car crash shattered his world. I spent 3 weeks in bed after we broke up. I don’t mean that it’s the same. It’s not. My family didn’t have to worry about saying their last goodbyes every time we spoke (but I did). I didn’t have to teach myself to cough to keep the lump in my throat from killing me (even though I always thought it would). My grandpa was supposed to be a 2-year-old for the rest of his life. Well he retired from his job as a professor a couple of months ago and now he studies Russian literature for fun. I used to think the miracle was that he managed to grow up again. –what a gift! To be plucked from paradise, as if for a moment, only to arrive a second time! But now I know: the true miracle was in getting there. “Hey. It’s me.” seems so small and insignificant, but I bet you can hear the quiver in my voice. I’m scared as hell, but baby steps and frequent breaths will take us to where we were–or better, wherever we are going.

You will move to South America to start over and I will continue sleeping with girls who mean nothing to me in an effort to rid myself of your perpetual phantom companionship. You will not forgive me for this. I will not ask you to because each time I sin against you, I widen the gulf between us. How elastic is love? I need our bond to break. It was tenderness, not passion, that damned me. I knew I was lost when you clutched my side gently, like the rib beside my heart, and whispered, 'I want to know you.' I fell into you like gravity and even now, I can’t arrest my descent. If you read this, you will tell me to stop it. You will chide me for prizing you above every woman I have ever met and casting your shadow over every flower who might otherwise bloom. I will not say anything because you are always right. It is impossible to argue with the truth. It is impossible to argue with your heart. You will tell me that our time was sweet, but it is not here anymore and I will try not to think of the 2 year old whose obituary I read on Friday, whose parents roll the word on their tongues, ‘gone,’ ‘gone,’ ‘gone,’ over and over and over, like a kamikaze boulder down a hill until it has lost its meaning and so have their tears. You will say, 'Listen, I can’t. It would be like turning back the pages of a book.' My lip will bleed when I stop myself from telling you I re-read books all the time. You will start over, and I bet your Spanish will become spectacular. If you want to practice, you can call me. I’m from South America  but you already know that. You already know all of this.  I won’t bring it up again.

I’ve been smoking since 2001 and that’s fitting, isn’t it? Only one thing happened in 2001. That was the year we all died. I figured I’d stop smoking when I got a girl–some dream about the power of love. But that didn’t happen. My grandma’s brother died of lung cancer and so did my grandma. I didn’t know them. At any rate, I don’t have cancer yet. I tried to quit a couple of times but here I am, still puffing away. Love is a dog from hell that bites you in the groin. I’m not much for sentiment, but wouldn’t it be nice if we could have skipped 2001? Nobody would be dead and I could own a dog or at least put out this damn cigarette.

I let you grow on me.