What had I given you that you could keep? Not photographs. Other things.
Words and words and words and words. Mostly in person, or on the computer.
I should have given you my own ink.
Why? So you would have had more to leave behind?
I hadn’t looked in your room for the roses, but I figured I would have seen them if they’d been there. Do you remember? It had been our arbitrary anniversary. Last year, near the end of the school year, so probably June.
“We don’t have an anniversary,” you’d said as we walked home from school. “We should have an anniversary.”
“How about today?” I said. “If we’re going to have an arbitrary anniversary, it might as well be today. We’ll be celebrating the anniversary of the day we came up with our arbitrary anniversary.”
You’d smiled. “I like that. I like that a lot.”
We gave each other two hours to plan. Then we’d go to Brookner Park to celebrate.
I’d never given anybody flowers before, but I’d always wanted to. So I went into town, to the florist, and I got roses. I didn’t want red ones, because it wasn’t like this was a romantic anniversary (“except in the poetry sense,” you would have added). So I went with a dark yellow—the color of the sun just before it turns orange. I had them wrapped, and signed a card and everything. After that, I went out and bought some of your favorite foods—peach salsa, lemon yogurt, almond cookies. Then, since I’d covered the anniversary, I stopped in a couple more stores for the arbitrary part. Salad tongs. A gobstopper. Birdseed. Somethings.
I was ten minutes early to the park and you were ten minutes late. This was about our usual ratio. You were rushed, flustered.
“I stopped at home and—oh my God—it was like I couldn’t get back out, because Mom was home early, and she was asking me about homework, and it’s like she thought I was still in seventh grade, so when I went to go back out, she was all like, ‘Where are you going?’ and I told her I was going out, and she was like, ‘I can see that,’ and I just didn’t know what to say, you know? I knew there was something to say, but I just didn’t know what it was. So instead of making it better, I left, and I’m sure when I get back, she’s going to be seething. I swear, that house keeps getting smaller and smaller. Soon it’s going to be an exquisite birdcage.”
You were quiet with other people. This wasn’t your usual talking. This was you with me.
I held the flowers out to you. Remember?
“Happy arbitrary anniversary,” I said.
Your eyes grew wide and you put your hand over your mouth.
“What?” I asked.
“I totally forgot our arbitrary anniversary, honey!”
For a second, I believed you. Then you laughed.
“Just kidding.”
You reached into your pocket and pulled out a small box, the kind that rings come in.
I handed you the flowers and you handed me the box.
I held my breath a little as I opened it. I remember that.
“I figured each of our arbitrary anniversaries can have a theme. So this will be our Cat’s Eye anniversary.”
Inside the box was a marble, a bigger-than-usual marble. Completely black glass.
Cat’s Eye.
I gave you everything I’d collected, but none of it seemed to add up to that single marble.
It was a good night. We talked, joked. Jack called a couple of times, but you didn’t answer. Nobody else called. I couldn’t remember anybody else ever calling, except your parents.
Nobody else.
When the time came for us to head home, I noticed that the roses were already wide open. They wouldn’t last much longer than the day.
“Sorry about that,” I said. “They were closed tighter in the shop.”
“That’s okay,” you told me. “I like them better when they’re dried up. I’ll keep them for years. Until our Get Rid of the Roses anniversary.”
And I kept the Cat’s Eye. Until it disappeared.
Did you steal it one day when you were in my room? Or did I lose it? Either way, isn’t it my fault for not noticing?
Why was I thinking about this?
Oh, yes—the roses.
Something to keep.
Something gone.