Red Hair – Sighting
Posted on | August 23, 2004 | No Comments
Should I be so disturbed ? Are my memories of my best friend in high school true?
I don’t trust what I remember much of the time. My brain seems to be quite unreliable when it comes to recollecting truth. The images that float about between my ears that date back before the move to Orlando, well they seem to be washed out, so to speak. There are memories that I know are truth. The abortion, and being the last one awake at the blue-Jell-O wrestling party. I wanted to wrestle but my womb still bled, although my tears never leaked. The last time I spoke to Dennis, I will always remember that. Andy’s apartment. Shana’s laughter and her soft, pale breasts. There are things I will never forget, but truth 10 years ago – questionable.
She didn’t look at me, not that I was aware of. But she looked the same. Small eyes ringed in dark liner. Her hair, tamed into a rough low, ponytail, its color – the hue of rich, carrot cake, remained. I didn’t see any gray. I don’t know why I expected to. She was only a few years older than me. But I expected something to have changed. But she was still small, freckled shoulders and small breasts. She wore an orange top (to complement her hair) and a pair of loose, white slacks. She looked fashionable. She looked sad, or angry perhaps. But she didn’t look at me as she walked by, surrounded by the intrusive sounds of the mall, she didn’t look, and I didn’t look back as I passed her.
Did I just see my best friend from high school?
I should have stopped her. But what do you say with the passing of 10 years? I turned into something else, so did she (I’m assuming) and the world moved on. I remember when she called me a dyke, moments after I revealed my feelings for her (she was drunk and didn’t remember the entire evening when she woke up late the following afternoon, still hung over). She took me to prom with her and her army boyfriend (my date stood me up) and when he was nice and drunk, and she was passed out, he thought it fun to come after me. I kicked the bathroom door in his face, and went home alone, again. She stayed with him for a few more months. She had a thing for Army guys. I just had a thing for guys in general (and girls too, but I didn’t admit that to myself back then). But when I moved down South we parted ways. It’s sad. I trusted her, told her first about being pregnant. She encouraged me to tell my family. So, after being out REALLY late, which was really sitting up till REALLY late in front of her house discussing the possibility of a pregnancy, I went home and found myself confronted by an irate mother and the pain of the truth. When I walked, green cap and gown glowing, it was time to head to Miami. That move was a clean break from the trauma of graduation and Nicole’s birth. What would follow would be four years of non-stop partying and carousing. But the best friend was gone by then, the hills of North Carolina abandoned. I visited once or twice, driving past her house, hoping to find her sunning herself out front. But the yard was always empty, and I didn’t go back.
So, my contemplation comes in the truth of her memory. Did I really love her at all? Were we really friends? I don’t trust much about myself sometimes. But I remember what her lips tasted like (cigarettes and cherry lip gloss) and her glittery, green VW Rabbit. I remember her laugh. There is truth in all of that.
I should have stopped her.
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