I’M LOOKING at John’s Wikipedia page. The portrait of him is from when he’s young, but no matter how much I look for it, there’s no death year mentioned. The page lists him as “still active.”
I follow the link to his website. I’m more curious than anything else, but when I see the photographs load, I have to stop myself from gasping. His work is breathtaking. It’s vulnerable without being overly exposed; it’s important without being sensational. It feels like art, even though it’s journalism. There’s a bunch of series on addicts and on children and vulnerable women. There’s something kind of ugly and edgy about some of the pictures, not in the sense that they feel cutting-edge, but they’re jagged, disjointed. I can almost see the pain through the colors, through the composition. They feel like a continuation of him.
And he’s alive.
Maybe because of me, maybe not because of me. But it doesn’t matter. He’s alive and he’s real and he’s made a difference.
I take my wallet out of my pocket and unfold the letter. The corners are starting to fall apart and there’s a little rip in the middle. The ink has started to fade. I run my fingers over the letters before I stand up and pull my memory box out from under my bed.
I don’t mind keeping the wine, but I don’t want it to accidentally burst and ruin John’s letter. I know it makes no sense but I take it all out and put in a plastic bag before I tie a knot in it then place everything in the bin.
I look at John’s letter again and smile.
My parents walk into my room without knocking, so I quickly put it in the box and kick it back under my bed.
They give each other this look I don’t think I’m supposed to notice.
“You said you needed to talk to us,” my mom says.
She looks like she’s lost weight. I wonder if that has anything to do with me. I hope it doesn’t.
“Yeah,” I say. “I wanted to talk to you because I’ve been horrible. And selfish.”
They look at each other.
“Thank you for letting me stay here,” I say, even though they are not saying anything. “I do appreciate it. And I promise I’ll do better, okay? I’m trying. And I may not always be good, but I’m always going to try.”
My father smiles at me. “That was very adult of you.”
I don’t know if that’s meant to be a compliment, but it feels like it is. And just looking at them, standing there in front of me, both with smiles on their faces, maybe that means everything is going to be okay.
Or maybe it doesn’t. And I can learn to live with that too.