A N D R E A C U R T I S
144
I didn’t even know why I was there. Not at first. Maybe not
even until right now. But I think maybe the picnic we had
there with all of our friends is one of my last happy memories
before Jonathan’s illness confused everything. I was like those
homing pigeons I’ve read about that the French used during
the siege of Paris to send messages in and out of the city. They
just knew where they had to go. It was an instinct, a need
so deep inside it was impossible not to heed, equally impos-
sible to explain. I couldn’t explain. Not to my parents. Or Ally.
Not even to myself.”
I hesitate, but Daniel encourages me to continue.
“I woke up in the morning covered in dew, and, just like
today, my limbs were locked, my fingers so stiff I could
hardly flex them. But the thing I remember is that my mind
was strangely, indescribably free. I remembered Jonathan,
and I cried for him. I cried for the cool morning that he
would never feel again. I cried for the blossoms in the trees
that he would never smell, the grass that would never again
tickle his neck, the poems he would never write. And I cried
for myself.”
“I’m sorry,” Daniel says, inching closer to me.
“But the stupid thing is, the really stupid thing, is I
thought that was it. I thought I’d grieved. I’d done my
mourning. But it turns out I just have to keep doing it over
and over and over again.”
I haven’t cried since that day in the park. Not at
Jonathan’s funeral. Not when we buried him. Not when
we buried my cousin and the other men just yesterday. But
I can feel the tears building up now against the back of
my throat.
