Behind You (9 page)

“Kennedy!” Ellie says. But she's smiling. “C'mon. I was the one with Miah, remember? Hello?”

I shrug. “You know. Sometimes brothers go both—”

“Don't even,” Ellie says.

Carlton shakes his head. “Nah, man,” he says. “Me and Miah were friends. Believe it or not, straight guys and gay guys can hang without it being a thing.”

“I know that. What—you think you're the first gay boy I ever talked to or something?”

Carlton just kinda smiles. “How would I know? We're just getting to know each other.”

“Well, you're not. I don't live under some rock or something. I've seen some things.” I thought about all the gay brothers at my church—
I
knew they were gay whether they were calling it that or not. And my uncle James is gay—and not scared to tell anybody.

“Anyway,” Ellie says. “Tonight is . . .” She hugs herself and looks around a bit. “You know, the night Miah died.”

I feel the wind leave me a little bit. I feel myself starting to sweat, even in the cold.

None of us says anything. People keep moving around us and I hear
Good game, Kennedy
again and again, but the words sound like they're coming from far away. I hear myself cursing again.

“You coming?” Carlton asks.

“Yeah, let's at least go get some fries or something,” I say. “Show a dead brother some love.”

“That dead brother probably helped you get that ball in the basket all those times,” Carlton says.

“Well, I'm all for that.” I give Carlton another look. I want to say,
The way you play ball, man—you sure you're gay?
But I'd had enough with that conversation for one night.

Carlton puts his arm around Ellie's shoulder.

“It's like
crazy
stars out tonight,” he says.

And me and Ellie and him look up. And keep on looking.

WINTER NOW. I TRY NOT TO MARK THE DAYS. HE GOT SHOT on a Saturday in December. We buried him that Monday. I closed the date book on my writing desk a long time ago. Over a year has passed since Miah died. The date book is black with gold letters on the front—
Remember,
it says. And I do.

It's snowing this morning. I stand at the window and watch the white flakes come down, sprinkle themselves over the block like someone's chenille bedspread. I eat a fried egg sandwich standing, look up at the silvered sky.

And remember.

The first third of my book is done now. There is a little girl telling the story—a ghost named Annabelle. Do I believe in ghosts? Now I do. Annabelle walks through this house and across my pages and tells her story. I listen and write it down—and in her story are the stories of people I've known and people I hope to meet one day. One day someone will read this book and maybe it will make them laugh. Or cry. Who knows. All I know is what I have here—a third of a finished book, a girl named Annabelle, black print on white paper, a new world to walk into.

The writing comes to me and I let it. Some days it is so filled with sadness that I have to lie down, sleep, forget for a while. Some days there is an absolute joy to it.

Some days there is Ellie in my kitchen, the yellow-gold light spilling over us as we talk. Some evenings there is Norman on my stoop, telling me about his life, listening to me talk about mine—friends now, the past of us together not as painful as it once was. And on Saturdays there is Carlton, carrying my grocery bags—when I say,
Sing, Carlton,
he does, and his soft voice takes me back to another time, a lighter time, a freer time.

And each day there is at least one perfect moment—the way the sun moves around the living room, roasted potatoes with lots of rosemary and oil, a new baby wrapped up in blue, a child laughing.

The snow blows and blows. I turn away from my window, make my way upstairs to my study. When I turn my lamp on, so much beautiful light fills the room.

WHAT SURPRISES ME STILL IS HOW MUCH DOESN'T CHANGE. You go outside and the night sky is still night sky—moon waxing and waning, stars—some brighter than others. Day means clouds or no clouds, rain or no rain. Cold or hot. You sweat. You cry. You walk and eat and pull your socks up when they fall down. You lace up your boots or strap on your sandals. You walk into a store and buy a new shirt. A day or two later you wear it and somebody says,
Hey, nice shirt. Is it new?

You go days without remembering and then for days you can't forget. But your smile comes more often. And the world seems to open its arms to you.

You laugh with Carlton. You have long, deep conversations with Nelia, you begin to talk more with Kennedy—whose smile, when it comes, is like a small gift.

You sit some mornings and think about what those who leave us leave behind—this . . . this potential for a new life . . . a different life. This
gift
of a future that we never imagined, filled with people we might have otherwise overlooked.

This morning there is so much snow on the ground. I walk slowly to Central Park. When I get to the entrance, I feel my heart start to beat hard. But I keep walking. The park is empty and still. The branches dip down with the weight of the snow.

Then I get to the place where Miah fell and wait for my screaming to come. But it doesn't. Instead the wind lifts up, blowing my hair into my eyes. Blowing the snow up around me. I listen to the sound it makes.
Shhhh. Shhhh. Shhhh.

“Jeremiah Roselind,” I whisper. “I will
always
remember you.”

The wind takes my words, lifts them gently into the air.

“Always,” I say again.

And the wind moves softly across my cheeks. Tender as a hand.

When you die, you turn away from the world you've always known and begin the long, slow walk into the next place. And behind you—everyone you left is taking a step deeper into their new world. The world they're learning to live in without you.

When you die, your voice becomes the wind and whispers to the living—

And when each of the people you left behind has heard, you turn slowly and begin your long walk into
your
new world.

But some every now and then you stop, look behind you.

And remember.