Someone once told me, someone special, that love unspoken was the loudest
sound of all.
Back then, or perhaps every day until yesterday, I took this to mean that the leaky faucet that had kept me up one entire night back in college and I had a very special relationship. I took this to mean that every sound, every noise, every volume that had ever caused me irritation was someone or thing, as the case has been, that I was in love with.
Because that's what a sound is. It's not music, it's not harmonious, but it is, apparently, love.
And maybe here, now, I've convinced myself that saying it, voicing this silence, will end all the noise.
"Jess, what exactly are you doing here?"
You cocked your brow heavenward, teasing me with a smile I hadn't yet seen of yours and told me in that voice, that timbre, slow way you had that always seemed to be more breath than talk, that soft intonation that I had teased you for, saying you had never quite hit puberty because your voice always seemed to change when you spoke to me,
"I'm here for you.
My breath caught, lodged itself deeper in my throat forcing itself under something in there, maybe my tongue, preventing me to respond and allowing you to continue.
"And of course, for the kick ass party."
Our times were like that.
We were like that.
Our moments weren't great, they weren't amazing or transcendent, but they were never fleeting. They were never perfect and so they could never be tainted by the moment after.
And it's better that way.
I've had moments, had other loves, that lived up to every idealistic fantasy until the moment I stopped holding my breath, that used up every ounce of perfect they produced until there was one moment when everything was wrong, imperfect. A disappointment.
But we weren't like that.
You were never a disappointment.
"Jess, what the hell is under your ass?"
You couldn't stop yourself, I knew before you spoke you couldn't stop yourself.
"Well, if I had my way, it'd be you."
I scoffed, shook my head in irritation, a gesture you more than anyone knew. But inside, you and I both know, I smiled.
"But this right here, this Gilmore, is a motorcycle."
You wore a leather jacket every time you rode it, a Fonzie leather jacket that I'm holding right now, a jacket that I tortured you for, a jacket that I loved.
But you still looked retarded in it.
You took me on rides on that motorcycle, acted as a thankless, pennyless chauffeur that's only semblance of gratitude was having me wrap my arms around you every time we drove. You liked that, I know it. Preferred it to a 'thank you.'
You probably bought it just for that.
"Jess, you can't drive home. Lord knows I wish you could, but it's raining."
I noticed that time, when I said that, your eyes lowered. I know you saw me notice. I didn't ignore it, as you probably thought I did, I just didn't know what to say. I never ignored you.
"Well, I think my bike could stand it. I don't want to cramp your style or anything."
I had insulted you, hurt you. I didn't mean to, didn't know I was capable of it. You were supposed to be invincible, especially to me. I watched you go out my door into the thundering night, a place you preferred over me right then, and my heart constricted for reasons that today I only realize. I stopped you, worry undoubtedly creasing my brow, and told you to call me when you had made it home.
You flashed me a smile, threw a leg over the old bike, and drove off. And we were fixed.
You called me half an hour later and I smiled into the phone, telling you that making it home in that weather only proved that you were insane. You told me I was wrong, that you making it home only proved that the Gods hated me.
We both knew I was glad.
"Gilmore, he's not worth it."
You were right, you were always right, but I still sneered. I couldn't stand when you were right. "What do you know?"
"Not a lot," You had told me, more insight into my character in your next words than anyone had ever had before, "but I do know he's not worth your tears."
My back had been turned.
And I never cried.
"Okay, how about this one? What do lifesavers do that men can't?"
I rolled my eyes, hid a smile and gave you that look. You made it your mission to see me smile.
And so for that reason alone, I bloodied my lip with my teeth.
"Come in eight different flavors."
Your jokes were never that funny.
I looked at you, your eyes were glowing, and took pity.
I smiled and your eyes lit up in triumph, "There it is, the Gilmore smile. I am the master of all things funny, the head honcho of all dirty jokes, the king of the crude!"
I allowed you that smile, that victory. I did.
Because it really wasn't all that funny.
"I need to have sex."
I blurted it out knowing you'd crucify me, knowing you'd harass me, and kind of anticipating it.
"And I need to get two teeth pulled, what's your point?"
I bit my lip, trying desperately to come up with one. You always made me say stupid things.
"I don't know, I'm lonely."
It sounded right and it allowed me to play the sympathy card, but you never bought it. You didn't say that, but you knew, we both knew, I just wanted to say it to you.
"He'll come, Ror. He will."
I still wonder if you meant you, that you'd you come, but you couldn't have.
Because you were always there.
You were the one thing I procrastinated, the one thing I swore I'd get around to, the one thing that would always wait.
You were the roller coaster at the carnival I swore I'd ride eventually. The highest branch of a tree I promised to climb. The last line of a poem I'd always intended to look up.
And I did.
I got in line for that roller coaster, after so many years of swearing.
But right as I did, the moment I had the confidence, the carnival closed down for good.
Time of death: 10:24 PM.
Metaphors never had a friend in me, they were usually lost on me, but I think I have it right this time.
My life was a carnival.
Lane was the fortune teller, the one with all the answers she couldn't find for herself.
And Dean, he was the cotton candy booth. The place to seek comfort when I chickened out on the roller coaster. He would be insulted to know I usually threw him up on roller coasters.
And you, you were that roller coaster. The kind that always seems bigger, taller, more complex every time you look at it. But it never changed.
You never changed.
Your eyes did, your voice did, your smiles did, but you were always different shades of the same.
Everyone said you were mysterious, it was probably the jacket, but I knew your every secret. They were hidden in your smiles, the ones you gave to me.
The ones that ran out yesterday.
~*~*~
I sit here with my eyes closed, dressed in black. It's out of respect externally, but really it's because you loved the color on me. You're not here now and so I can finally please you.
Lane holds my hand, my mother lays hers on my shoulder, and I pray for the blink of sleep.
You never agreed with that theory.
That sleep was a wink, a sigh, a breath of clarity.
You had watched me sleep you said, never expanding on why, and I most definitely slept longer than a blink. I knew you understood.
Sleep is fleeting.
It's the moment you hit unconsciousness to the moment you can hear the sounds of reality. It's not prolonged, it's time erased from your day.
I want to sleep.
To be with you and not remember.
Because it's better that way.
~*~*~
Everyone's left the cemetery, I'm here alone with you.
I lay here, my dress welcoming the stains of brown the dirt upon which you rest gives it.
"I have your jacket," I know you can hear me, you said you always could. "Thought you'd like it back. It's ugly anyway."
I lay the jacket amongst the flowers resting with you. It looks better there than it ever did on you.
"So, I've been thinking. It's a good thing that it never happened." You know what I'm talking about.
"You were probably a horrible kisser," You'd have laughed at this if you could respond, you probably are laughing at this wherever you are, and told me you could prove me wrong if I'd like. I would've.
"And so, you win."
You do. It took me ten years, but I'm ready now. The carnival's not running so I'll sit in the empty cart, a cart that won't move. But I'm still afraid. To say these words to a person who can't answer anyway.
But you deserve them.
For teaching me about subways, for carrying my backpack, for taping my favorite TV shows when I was out of town, for never buying me Evian water because you knew I hated it, for installing all those programs on my computer that I still can't work, for hating Ayn Rand, for buying my groceries all through college, for feeling them back.
"I love you, Jess."
They finally come out, but we both know it's not right.Ten years of waiting and the words are raw, our one imperfection.
'I love you' could never measure what your smiles meant to me. 'I love you' could never express how much you mattered.
'I love you' could never tell you how much I loved you.
"Why couldn't you have just told him that four days ago?"
I look behind me, where Lane stands. "He always wanted you to say it."
The fortune teller.
We're the one fortune she never knew, you and I.
"No, he didn't. He knew. He never needed me to say it," I don't try to explain, we both know they'll never understand, but she nods anyway.
It's better that way.
I want you alone.
She walks away and I turn to you, and I know you're there. Smiling, laughing, taunting.
Because that's you.
You're not
Jess Mariano
1985-2011
Beloved son and friend
You're mine.
And it's finally then, after twenty five years that I understand what you've known all along.
Someone once told me, someone special, that love unspoken was the loudest sound of all.
But they were wrong.
Love unspoken isn't the loudest sound of all because it's not a sound at all.
It's a melody.
Back then, or perhaps every day until yesterday, I took this to mean that the leaky faucet that had kept me up one entire night back in college and I had a very special relationship. I took this to mean that every sound, every noise, every volume that had ever caused me irritation was someone or thing, as the case has been, that I was in love with.
Because that's what a sound is. It's not music, it's not harmonious, but it is, apparently, love.
And maybe here, now, I've convinced myself that saying it, voicing this silence, will end all the noise.
"Jess, what exactly are you doing here?"
You cocked your brow heavenward, teasing me with a smile I hadn't yet seen of yours and told me in that voice, that timbre, slow way you had that always seemed to be more breath than talk, that soft intonation that I had teased you for, saying you had never quite hit puberty because your voice always seemed to change when you spoke to me,
"I'm here for you.
My breath caught, lodged itself deeper in my throat forcing itself under something in there, maybe my tongue, preventing me to respond and allowing you to continue.
"And of course, for the kick ass party."
Our times were like that.
We were like that.
Our moments weren't great, they weren't amazing or transcendent, but they were never fleeting. They were never perfect and so they could never be tainted by the moment after.
And it's better that way.
I've had moments, had other loves, that lived up to every idealistic fantasy until the moment I stopped holding my breath, that used up every ounce of perfect they produced until there was one moment when everything was wrong, imperfect. A disappointment.
But we weren't like that.
You were never a disappointment.
"Jess, what the hell is under your ass?"
You couldn't stop yourself, I knew before you spoke you couldn't stop yourself.
"Well, if I had my way, it'd be you."
I scoffed, shook my head in irritation, a gesture you more than anyone knew. But inside, you and I both know, I smiled.
"But this right here, this Gilmore, is a motorcycle."
You wore a leather jacket every time you rode it, a Fonzie leather jacket that I'm holding right now, a jacket that I tortured you for, a jacket that I loved.
But you still looked retarded in it.
You took me on rides on that motorcycle, acted as a thankless, pennyless chauffeur that's only semblance of gratitude was having me wrap my arms around you every time we drove. You liked that, I know it. Preferred it to a 'thank you.'
You probably bought it just for that.
"Jess, you can't drive home. Lord knows I wish you could, but it's raining."
I noticed that time, when I said that, your eyes lowered. I know you saw me notice. I didn't ignore it, as you probably thought I did, I just didn't know what to say. I never ignored you.
"Well, I think my bike could stand it. I don't want to cramp your style or anything."
I had insulted you, hurt you. I didn't mean to, didn't know I was capable of it. You were supposed to be invincible, especially to me. I watched you go out my door into the thundering night, a place you preferred over me right then, and my heart constricted for reasons that today I only realize. I stopped you, worry undoubtedly creasing my brow, and told you to call me when you had made it home.
You flashed me a smile, threw a leg over the old bike, and drove off. And we were fixed.
You called me half an hour later and I smiled into the phone, telling you that making it home in that weather only proved that you were insane. You told me I was wrong, that you making it home only proved that the Gods hated me.
We both knew I was glad.
"Gilmore, he's not worth it."
You were right, you were always right, but I still sneered. I couldn't stand when you were right. "What do you know?"
"Not a lot," You had told me, more insight into my character in your next words than anyone had ever had before, "but I do know he's not worth your tears."
My back had been turned.
And I never cried.
"Okay, how about this one? What do lifesavers do that men can't?"
I rolled my eyes, hid a smile and gave you that look. You made it your mission to see me smile.
And so for that reason alone, I bloodied my lip with my teeth.
"Come in eight different flavors."
Your jokes were never that funny.
I looked at you, your eyes were glowing, and took pity.
I smiled and your eyes lit up in triumph, "There it is, the Gilmore smile. I am the master of all things funny, the head honcho of all dirty jokes, the king of the crude!"
I allowed you that smile, that victory. I did.
Because it really wasn't all that funny.
"I need to have sex."
I blurted it out knowing you'd crucify me, knowing you'd harass me, and kind of anticipating it.
"And I need to get two teeth pulled, what's your point?"
I bit my lip, trying desperately to come up with one. You always made me say stupid things.
"I don't know, I'm lonely."
It sounded right and it allowed me to play the sympathy card, but you never bought it. You didn't say that, but you knew, we both knew, I just wanted to say it to you.
"He'll come, Ror. He will."
I still wonder if you meant you, that you'd you come, but you couldn't have.
Because you were always there.
You were the one thing I procrastinated, the one thing I swore I'd get around to, the one thing that would always wait.
You were the roller coaster at the carnival I swore I'd ride eventually. The highest branch of a tree I promised to climb. The last line of a poem I'd always intended to look up.
And I did.
I got in line for that roller coaster, after so many years of swearing.
But right as I did, the moment I had the confidence, the carnival closed down for good.
Time of death: 10:24 PM.
Metaphors never had a friend in me, they were usually lost on me, but I think I have it right this time.
My life was a carnival.
Lane was the fortune teller, the one with all the answers she couldn't find for herself.
And Dean, he was the cotton candy booth. The place to seek comfort when I chickened out on the roller coaster. He would be insulted to know I usually threw him up on roller coasters.
And you, you were that roller coaster. The kind that always seems bigger, taller, more complex every time you look at it. But it never changed.
You never changed.
Your eyes did, your voice did, your smiles did, but you were always different shades of the same.
Everyone said you were mysterious, it was probably the jacket, but I knew your every secret. They were hidden in your smiles, the ones you gave to me.
The ones that ran out yesterday.
~*~*~
I sit here with my eyes closed, dressed in black. It's out of respect externally, but really it's because you loved the color on me. You're not here now and so I can finally please you.
Lane holds my hand, my mother lays hers on my shoulder, and I pray for the blink of sleep.
You never agreed with that theory.
That sleep was a wink, a sigh, a breath of clarity.
You had watched me sleep you said, never expanding on why, and I most definitely slept longer than a blink. I knew you understood.
Sleep is fleeting.
It's the moment you hit unconsciousness to the moment you can hear the sounds of reality. It's not prolonged, it's time erased from your day.
I want to sleep.
To be with you and not remember.
Because it's better that way.
~*~*~
Everyone's left the cemetery, I'm here alone with you.
I lay here, my dress welcoming the stains of brown the dirt upon which you rest gives it.
"I have your jacket," I know you can hear me, you said you always could. "Thought you'd like it back. It's ugly anyway."
I lay the jacket amongst the flowers resting with you. It looks better there than it ever did on you.
"So, I've been thinking. It's a good thing that it never happened." You know what I'm talking about.
"You were probably a horrible kisser," You'd have laughed at this if you could respond, you probably are laughing at this wherever you are, and told me you could prove me wrong if I'd like. I would've.
"And so, you win."
You do. It took me ten years, but I'm ready now. The carnival's not running so I'll sit in the empty cart, a cart that won't move. But I'm still afraid. To say these words to a person who can't answer anyway.
But you deserve them.
For teaching me about subways, for carrying my backpack, for taping my favorite TV shows when I was out of town, for never buying me Evian water because you knew I hated it, for installing all those programs on my computer that I still can't work, for hating Ayn Rand, for buying my groceries all through college, for feeling them back.
"I love you, Jess."
They finally come out, but we both know it's not right.Ten years of waiting and the words are raw, our one imperfection.
'I love you' could never measure what your smiles meant to me. 'I love you' could never express how much you mattered.
'I love you' could never tell you how much I loved you.
"Why couldn't you have just told him that four days ago?"
I look behind me, where Lane stands. "He always wanted you to say it."
The fortune teller.
We're the one fortune she never knew, you and I.
"No, he didn't. He knew. He never needed me to say it," I don't try to explain, we both know they'll never understand, but she nods anyway.
It's better that way.
I want you alone.
She walks away and I turn to you, and I know you're there. Smiling, laughing, taunting.
Because that's you.
You're not
Jess Mariano
1985-2011
Beloved son and friend
You're mine.
And it's finally then, after twenty five years that I understand what you've known all along.
Someone once told me, someone special, that love unspoken was the loudest sound of all.
But they were wrong.
Love unspoken isn't the loudest sound of all because it's not a sound at all.
It's a melody.