Under the shade of a sycamore tree I sat and remembered. My fingers intertwined like block-less knives and chrysanthemum stems that no-one else remembered to bring. Across the park a president is interred to the sound of a military band. Against stars and stripes they sing “God save the King” in American; their solemn backdrop. But here, in loveless branches embrace, I asked what I could do for Sandy. In her granite glint I could see the senator’s eyes.
Their world ended three days ago like a shot, but I couldn’t hear the uproar through the six-feet-silence under the sycamore tree. They said he ate lead like rain from an upstairs window. Sandy lost all her hair. Neither of us had ever left Virginia; barely left Arlington. Now I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to come back without smelling cheap perfume that only she made smell beautiful, and seeing her face reflected in the cold coke glasses lined up in the diner where we first met. Her hair was wild like the wind, untamed. Sandy lost all her hair. We never made a speech, graduated or met Martin Luther King. We never hit the news like cold war pioneers, visited Germany or asked what we could do for our country. But I asked what I could do for her, forever; and we slept naked under the sky the day that her mother died. We danced in the parade on the fourth of July, and said we’d never lie. Then on top of the water tower, our fingers intertwined, I promised you one day we would fly. That day my world ended and began all at once when you looked at me like you’d captured the sun in your eye and held it just so we could watch it together. Then again in our white house, by the chrysanthemums on the veranda, I knew life would never be the same again as you told me how you’d lose your hair. Our prescription of love wasn’t enough.
Their black parade for John swamped the field. She stood first in line for once, folded flag in hand to a twenty one gun ironic salute. The only one with tears. Do you think they sat in armchairs, old like our legs, discussing the past and politics? Do you think she carries a picture of him at eighteen dressed in those jeans his mother never approved of. She wore tight jeans to my Father’s fourth wedding, a testament to his wandering eyes and philanderous pride. After his four rows of whisky he hit me like we were young, and when I finally hit him back not even thick Virginia air could hold us as we ran. The day my Father died she cried “and I loved you all the more.” But I told her we were too old to sleep naked under the sky. So we drove up the hill to the water tower and she told me one day we would fly.
“You told me one day we would fly.”
“…” the grave reply.
“You died on a Monday, and even the president said I could mourn.”