Blue Sands

We were both born in the same year - fate, some would say.
Destined to become the best of friends, we acted out our parts.
We began our lives fighting over toys in cribs,
whining and crying together when we were sleepy,
and eventually, sleeping - sometimes, head to head,
sealing the bond between us that would never break.

When we were both five years old
my parents would ship us to their old friend's house
every weekend, straight in front of the Carolina coast.
And each day that we were there, we had so much fun
running around by the water's edge
we never even learned their friend's name.

The gulls would cry in terror whenever we approached.
They would rise up high as we ran towards them:
arms outstretched, mouths open in taunting screams.
They would circle the sands for hours afterward,
shrieking and renouncing this home invasion.

One day, I was asked a very serious question:
"If the ocean is blue, why does the sand not turn blue
when the water from the sea splashes onto it?"
At age five, this was as philosophical as Aristotle,
and I pondered the question over and over,
determined to give the correct answer some day.

Yet time weaves webs which get tangled up in memories,
and the years seemed to blend as we grew older.
My friend's hair grew longer; my eyes turned darker -
we each felt the weight of the world from time to time.
But together, we could lift it - anything was possible
as long as the two of us stood side by side.

When we were thirteen, we dealt with first kisses;
at sixteen we shared stories of women we'd had.
By eighteen the world was within grasping distance;
at twenty, I was married to some woman I barely knew.

I tried to convince my friend to settle down -
life was too delicate to be taken so harshly.
But the parties were too fun, the drugs too sweet -
the women too easy to resist.

Somehow, I turned out to be a good family man -
my friend turned out to be something else.
But I ceased to try changing him - I was too happy
living in a new home with someone I loved.
How can life get any better than that?

Five years later, I traveled two thousand miles
to bail my friend out from a dirty Las Vegas jail.
We never said a word on the car ride back -
my friend just stared at the road as it passed by.

At thirty, I hardly ever saw my friend anymore:
just a wave, a salute, a card in the mail
was all we were amounting to.
Until my friend got some women from Georgia
drunk, knocked up, and fired from a job.
I lent some money, got a thank-you in response,
and we both went along our own paths.

I saw my friend one final time,
at a bar in New York City -
I was celebrating with my daughter
who was fresh out of college.
My friend was trying to flirt with her.
A fight almost ensued, until I realized who it was,
and quickly stepped away from the crowd
to vomit in some dark bathroom.

When we arrived home, my wife asked me
how I could have ever loved a friend like that.
I explained to her: "One of us was different back then;
I'm not quite sure just who that was."

Next year, I read it in the papers:
my friend was dead from an overdose,
or some form of intoxicating drink.
It really did not matter - the ink told the story,
and I cried for the first time in years.

I suppose the funeral was the worst part:
nobody was there whom I could recall.
Yet still, my wife held on to me tightly
and I loved her so much for it.
I stood apart from the sobbing ones
as they lowered my friend in the ground:
just one more coffin in a ground full of wood.

When I arrived home, I locked the bathroom door
and cried until my eyes were almost bleeding.

But to be honest, I was not that devastated
over the physical death, or the concept.
I was not even hurt over the fact
that we should have been closer.
When I closed my eyes, and pictured us
growing up together, arm linked in arm,
I got a warm feeling in my stomach.
Yet there had to be a reason for my tears.

Then I remembered, as I slunk to my bedroom:
I never did figure out
why the sands did not turn blue.


~J.V.Harker~
~Monday 8 June 2009~