It was your birthday. The first one after you left vanished were gone.
When I woke up, I dreamed thought about other birthdays. Ones where we’d been together.
Like two years ago. Freshman year. When I had you all to myself. I asked you what you wanted and you said roses, and then you said, “But not the flowers.” So I spent weeks gathering presents: a polished piece of rose quartz, White Rose tea, a ceramic tile I’d bought at the White House in fourth grade featuring the Rose Garden. A novel called Rose Sees Red, a biography of Gypsy Rose Lee, a mix of songs by bands called Blue Roses, the Stone Roses, White Rose Movement. Then I rigged your locker with pulleys, so when you opened it, all the objects rose. I’m not sure you got that part, not until I told you. But you were so happy then. This was before happiness became so complicated. This was when you could ask me for something, I could give it to you, and the world would be right.
And then there was last year. You went out with Jack at night, but I at least had you for the afternoon. I asked you what you wanted and you said you didn’t want anything. And I told you I wasn’t planning on giving you anything; I was planning on giving you something. That whole week, we started to divide things into those two categories: anything or something. A piece of jewelry bought at a department store: anything. A piece of jewelry made by hand: something. A dollar: anything. A sand dollar: something. A gift certificate: anything. An IOU for two hours of starwatching: something. A drunk kiss at a party: anything. A sober kiss alone in a park: something. We ended up spending the afternoon walking around, pointing at things and labeling them anything or something. Should I have paid closer attention? Written them down? No, it was a good day. Wasn’t it? At the end, you pointed to me and said something. And I pointed back and said something. I held on to that.
Now it was a year later. I wished you a happy birthday. That word again. Happy. It’s a curse. The pursuit of happiness makes us deeply unhappy. It’s a trap.
Before anything else happened, there was me in bed, thinking of who you used to be.
I don’t want you to think I forgot.