I remember you

I remember you,  when we were young.  We unzipped a sleeping bag, spread it out on the carpet, and sat on the floor picnic style to watch a video tape.
Who needs a couch anyway?

Our backs would ache and I would lay my palms flat behind me and lock my elbows.
Me, I a couch.

You offered to let me lean on your chest for support, but I didn’t trust you.  If I put my head on your shoulder, I knew you’d want to kiss me; and I didn’t trust you not to try.  And sure, I could pull away and say no, but that’s not a conversation I wanted to have.

So I shifted my weight from one arm to another and ignored my palms’ protests.

Eventually, I finally did take you up on that offer to lean on you.  And I was right not to trust you, but I was surprised that you accepted my rejection.  You said, “okay,” and we watched the movie.

(You were just being a decent human being, and maybe it was rape-culture that made me believe the fact that you respected my answer made you a gentleman.  But that’s not my point.)

I remember you that July.  I remember your face in the pinkish glow of Christmas lights I hung in the living room.  I remember your drive and uncertainty and how you were filled with so much life and energy.

And now you’re still driven, and a little more certain, with just as much life and a little less energy.

Do you remember me?  Miss Independence?  Not needing anything from anyone.  Swallowing her depression, inwardly falling apart while outwardly taking her pills and eating her happiness.  Do I remember her right?  She was waiting for her chance to take on the world.  I’m not sure she ever took it.  Or if she and me are still the same.








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