By A Fire

In this one you are with a bunch of hardcore surfer guys from high school. It’s night in the wilderness of Baja California. There’s a bonfire and the sparks are spinning in the sky. It crackles like broken bones, which will happen later. You’re on a motorcycle. The other guys are in some old 4-wheel drive WWII vehicle that crawls along at about 10 mph. You’ve navigated miles of rough desert road from Ensenada down the peninsula. You’ve made it to the first of many surf spots. You guys are drinking beer and making fun of each other. Pushing and pulling at your adolescent male fantasies. Talking about girls. The waves break. Bullshitting.

In this one, you’re in the middle of the group smiling. Your crooked teeth show. You’re soft and warm and sweet like a little bunny. You’d hate if I said that, but you know in your heart it’s true. In this one, you’ve forgotten that your mom leaves you alone a lot. She’s a traveling cosmetic saleswoman. I never hear about a father. Completely absent, and because your mom is gone a lot, your apartment on Griffith Park Blvd. is a haven for us kids.

In this one, I’m madly in love with you. I’m also afraid. You’re a bit older, hang out with a more mature crowd. In this one, I’m 16 years old and you’re graduating. You drink. You’re a car freak. Besides the motorcycle, you have a sharp little Austin Healy convertible back home. Forest green of course. You don’t care much for school beyond socializing. But now by the fire you are free. You are among good buddies who are daring risk takers and a little dangerous.

I see the sparks dancing in your eyes. I see the happiness. I see the goodness. I see the pain, too. After this, you all will go to the next deserted beach in the absolutely wild peninsula, and you will crash your motorcycle. You also crashed the Austin Healy taking a curve over by the high school. You will break your hip. My mother will hear a rumor that you were drinking. My mother thinks I’m sleeping with you and 50 years later she still believes it though I tell her I was a virgin. My mother thinks you are a bad influence. You are not “intellectual” enough. A campaign begins against you. You, who are my first love, my guide, my innocent, humorous partner. With a laugh that lights up the sky.

In this one you’re the one who loved me. Who wrote me letters when my mother sent me to France to get away from you. So stupid, she was. Who was so silly you drew a bowl of Jello “quivering for my return.” I found those love letters. In these letters I feel for the first time that someone saw me. That I touched you as you touched me. I was a person, even back then. I had agency in this life.