for over twenty-five years, I carried his picture around. From apartment to apartment, from Omaha to Houston and then to Des Moines. A nice frame, always somewhere private . . . My bedroom, my bath, a closet . . . Somewhere safe.
He really wasn't anybody. He was a good looking young man on a greeting card. A black and white photo, but a green tint added to his eyes. He was sitting in a car, a car window from the seventies. And I missed him.
I hated him rather, and loved him of course. He was imagination's memory of the One who wanted me, the One who would have held me, the One who would have taught me not to hate myself, my lover, my friend . . . My husband.
My white knight who never showed up.
so, I carried him around for years.
Talked to him.
Angry,
raged at his face.
Cried.
Tried twice, no three times, to make him real.
Failed. Failed. And failed again.
Such a beautiful young man. This evening, as I planned my retirement, my becoming Grandpa and not Old Fag. Just me, all by myself, took his picture from the frame and
Yep, it was a greeting card. Purchased for 99 cents in a time long ago. No one actually. Not a real person. Never was.
I guess I'm growing up at 62.
I couldn't put him in the trash though. I tried. I had to take him out and put him away, folded inside a book that I may never read again.
How odd to love an image instead of a man.