November 22, 2012

Dear Gilbert,

I think the entire rest of my fall break is ruined. It'll probably be weeks before Dad and Papa trust me again.

This morning, Alfred was sprawled on the couch, complaining again. This time it was about the fact that there was nothing to do here. Usually I would agree, saying as there's no internet or cable TV, but lately, I've found myself not caring. Just sitting down outside and thinking of you has seemed to occupy all of my time.

But in the middle of Alfred's whining, Dad finally slammed his paper down on the table in annoyance. "Fine! Fine, you're bored! Entertain yourself, then! Go to the boardwalk, go bloody walk the beach! You don't need electronics!"

As usual, the issue was resolved with Dad's yelling. He's always been the only one able to get Alfred to shut up.

Alfred perked up immediately at the idea of going to the boardwalk. And guess who he decided to drag along with him, Gilbert?

Papa thought it was a fabulous idea, patting me on the top of the head and smiling. "Fresh air is good for you, Mathieu. You haven't gone out in a while, non?"

And so I was forced to change out of my pajamas and pushed out the door, along with Al.

It's been weeks since Alfred has really talked to me, Gilbert. I figured that he just didn't care. He was never that close to you, and while he mourned for a week or two, after that it was the past, and he was already hopping from party to party, friend to friend, as usual. Not like I was surprised. He'd always been like that- never dwelling on the past, living life for each day.

So when he said those words to me, sounding serious, sounding almost… concerned? I wasn't sure what to think.

"Matt… why aren't you trying harder?"

Silence.

"Wh-what…? What do you mean?"

"I mean, why aren't you trying harder?"

"…Trying harder?"

"You don't talk to anyone anymore. You don't do anything anymore. I know that Gilbert's… passing… was really hard for you. I know he was your closest friend, but you're pushing everyone away. You could make things so much easier for yourself, you know. By just clearing your mind and not sitting around in your grief. You need to get a grip, Matt. Try harder."

The thought had never really occurred to me. Am I not trying hard enough to get over you?

No one understands me like you did, Gilbert. They don't understand that my way of trying is by alienating myself. Even I don't fully understand it.

I've had this conversation numerous times. With guidance counselors, with my parents, with teachers. And with myself.

His words hurt me. I don't know why, and I don't think I'll ever know why. Never know what in his words caused me to do what I did.

I ran.

The opposite direction of the boardwalk, tears blurring my vision, I ran. Ignoring Alfred's calls behind me, pushing myself forward, faster, faster.

I don't understand anything I do anymore.

My legs brought me to our place, Gilbert.

It was looking worse for the wear in the months that we hadn't been there to clean it up. The wood rotting, the paint chipping, covered in sand and dust. Our tree house. I couldn't take it. Seeing it like that, falling apart. It made me feel as if my heart had plummeted into my stomach, rotting. It made your death seem too real for me to take.

So I cleaned it up.

I'm not sure how long I was out there, brushing away the dirt, picking off the moss and fungus with my fingernails.

The memories seemed to come at me from all different directions as I worked.

The summer of second grade. Standing in the aisle of the Home Depot, three dollars shoved into your pocket. "We need to get red! Red is the bestest color!" You'd said, and I'd nodded eagerly in agreement.

Your disappointment when you found out that you didn't have enough. Then our arms full of tiny bottles of sample paint as we walked back. Blues and greens and yellows and purples. No red. There was no more red. "One day it will be red," you'd said. "But we'll have to work with what we've got for now."

The hours spent building it. Dad had offered to help, but we'd shook our heads, convinced we could do it ourselves.

The ending result.

The tiny tree house looked as if it were on the brink of falling apart, but we both knew that it would hold fine. The rainbows of colors- every color but red- that shone in the light. So many colors that every person that walked by couldn't help but stare at our work of art.

"Remember, Birdie! This is our clubhouse and no one else is allowed!" You'd said. Put out your hand and smiled. "Shake on it. No one else is allowed in. Not even Alfred!"

More memories, faster now.

You take my hand slowly, hesitantly. I don't pull away.

You smile at me and run a hand through my hair.

"Birdie… you're never allowed to be with anyone but me." Your voice is soft, light.

At some point, I fell asleep.

It must have been a while, because I woke to a flashlight in my face, and a pair of worried green eyes.

Dad.

I blinked in the light, unsure of what was going on before Dad turned and called behind him. "Francis! Francis, I found him!"

"Oh!" Papa's voice carried over the wind, relief and worry slicked over his tone.

I don't remember much. Papa slipping one arm under my legs, the other supporting my back. I can feel the tears leaking from my eyes. Although, I'm not sure why they're there.

In Papa's arms, enclosed in warmth, I closed my eyes once more, drowning in the night around me.

When I awoke for the second time, I was in bed. My clock says that it's almost twelve.

Gilbert… Nothing is making sense anymore.

Yours,

Matthew