Page 119 of Down Bad

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at me.

I don’t know why, but I decide to sit right next to him and say nothing back.

It’s so quiet out here. So peaceful.

I say nothing, he says nothing, and everything’s unexpectedly perfect. For some reason I won’t understand for years, I’m fucking thankful for this moment.

That’s when my eyes pop open.

The dream’s gone.

I’m an adult again, staring at my tío and tía’s ceiling, on a bed that isn’t mine, in a house with unfamiliar air.

I go to the hallway closet, pull down a box, and take it straight to the living room, opening it up on the coffee table. I’m on the hunt as I dive through photos. Sticky albums. Memories and old crap that’s been left behind to deal with when the house sells.

And I’m just about to give up when I turn one more page.

And it’s that birthday party.

Which obviously wasn’t just a fucking dream.

I see the photo, taken by my mom, maybe my tía, or even my dad, from the back window of our old house, a mystery observer.

Two boys on the swinging bench.

Ten times more vivid than I remember. We didn’t look happy, but we didn’t look sad. Just sitting there. Not swinging at all.

Was that me and Wyatt?

The question sits with me and my coffee in the kitchen, long before the sun’s even risen. The orchid stares at me from her spot on the counter, like a tired cartoon fairy godmother in the shape of a flower, mildly interested in my wellbeing, maybe just as much as I am in hers, all out of magic, just waiting for the morning, for something to happen.

Hours later, I make a decision: I’m going to church.

For the first time since my dad died.

Nah, this isn’t some big thing. Not a grand emotional turn or sappy bullshit moment where I come to terms with a loss that I’ve already processed years ago. It’s Sunday. I’m just going to church. Equivalent to getting some fresh air. Means nothing.

Even if Wyatt’s there.

The quiet boy who may or may not have come to one of my birthday parties and joined me on a swinging bench to not swing.

To not ask if I was okay.

To do me a favor and not say anything at all.

I’m just going to church. That’s it.

The weather does me no favors, so it’s balls hot as I walk to the church. My lower back and pits are soaked when I finally show up at the doors, which are open. An older couple’s walking up the steps when I approach. The lobby only has a few people, none of them paying me any mind. That’s fine, since I don’t want any mind paid to me. I’m just fine minding my own business over here.

Different story when I’m at the doors leading into the chapel.

The smell of old wood and people’s perfume hitting my face.

The rows of wooden pews.

The backs of heads filling them, every row, all the way to the front, rows and rows of fucking hair.

A father in the back putting his hand on his son’s shoulder, a kid, leaning in and saying something. The kid laughs.