N.C. (A Stolen Biography: 1996-2015)

MAGGIE WARREN

Your Dad in the Aisle

I never thought I’d see a father with his head thrown back with tears streaming down his face, as though pride had died with his son. I watched as your family approached the small box holding the ashes that were you once, your mother and sister embracing.

I never thought I’d see a funeral home so full, never thought we’d greet a day without you, and couldn’t help but ponder the people who hurt you, wondering if they apologized or meant to.

But I let it all go, knowing that you and I are skies not made for thunderstorms.

The Cat in the Desert

“Then we had a little fire and everyone went in and I just played guitar by myself surrounded by mountains. I could hear the howls of coyotes in the distance . . . Then this kitty walked up and sat down with me. He was white and fluffy with pretty blue eyes. He was dirty. I got him some milk and he sat with me for an hour or so while I played and sang. And since then, I’ve felt better. We went on a trip, and I bought a CD at a thrift shop about 5 miles north of Mexico for $1.50, and I had one of the band’s albums already . . . but I found a song that since then, three days ago, has really been on my mind constantly . . . ”

Sun

We were classmates, mere strangers in the hallways. Everyone who knew you adored you, and those who didn’t adored you too.

You saw me, saw past the crumpled t-shirts and ghastly eyes, and nothing has been the same since—not music, blue eyes, sunsets . . .

First Criticism

​

Forget what they said. All you need to know is that I meant it when I said we could run away to Cheyenne.

Listening In

“Please don’t get all worried about me. I’ve felt this way for a long, long time.”

Self-Criticism

​

And though you may hate parts of yourself and who you used to be, I won’t hear a single bad thing about you again. Don’t go blaming yourself for bad timing and poor brain chemistry.

Fantasies

In my fantasies, I find you at midnight. Instead of sitting and talking on a nearby bench, we dance through sparkling streets, our movements barely lit by the dim glow of a nearby street light, yet we can see just fine.

We dance well past it’s time for bed.

We always manage to find a body of water that is hidden yet so clear we can see each other underneath, as if we’re simply looking through glass we can breathe. We don’t touch air again until dawn.

​

We watch from just below the surface as the sun rises, glistening in the water, creating tiny, winding rainbows. We breathe in, feasting on the technicolor start.

In my fantasies, you wake up.