Part 3

Dear Friends and Gentle Readers,

     I know that I've been going on about being more positive around here, but that's not really being authentic. I have been having a hard time emotionally, and it's really not in me to thing of pleasant or informative things to write about. Thankfully, the name of this blog is "First Person Narrative" and as such, I feel that I am able to forego actual blog posts for a while and just share some of my writing with you. 

     In March, I shared with you an excerpt from a larger essay I wrote about going home and visiting the cemetery. Over the next two weeks, while I do some serious self-care, I am going to share the rest of this story with you. I hope you enjoy it. 

xo,

     Uranium J

Click here to read the first part of the essay.
Click here to read Part 2.

Part 3

Even before people in my life started dropping like flies, the cemetery was an important fixture in my mind because I knew that William lived across the street. I was ticking off the days on the calendar until I got a license so that I could park in the cemetery at night and pine over him. I didn’t think this through though – he was three years older than me and would be long gone in the Army before I even got a permit, and anyway, that was stalking, and not even normal crazy high school girl stalking – but creepy weird Goth cemetery stalking.

I had this idea that I was going to stake out his humble orange abode every night from the confines of the graveyard,  most likely writing bad poetry by the dashboard light. Once I figured out when I was least likely to be discovered, I would steal into his yard and anonymously leave a single red rose on the hood of his car. He would suddenly acquire clairvoyance and know that it was me and that my love was true and pure and faithful and unending.

He would sweep me off my feet and we would move somewhere far away and have a great studio apartment like on Friends and have lots of eclectic people around us with whom to celebrate Thanksgiving and Christmas (so that we would never have to come back to Crescent City, God forbid). I would make fantastic feasts for our bohemian crowd and my mom and dad would come to break bread with us. Then, after the guests had cleared out on these holidays we would wrap ourselves in warm blankets

Even before people in my life started dropping like flies, the cemetery was an important fixture in my mind because I knew that William lived across the street. I was ticking off the days on the calendar until I got a license so that I could park in the cemetery at night and pine over him. I didn’t think this through though – he was three years older than me and would be long gone in the Army before I even got a permit, and anyway, that was stalking, and not even normal crazy high school girl stalking – but creepy weird Goth cemetery stalking.

I had this idea that I was going to stake out his humble orange abode every night from the confines of the graveyard – most likely writing bad poetry by the dashboard light – and once I figured out when I was least likely to be discovered, I would steal into his yard and anonymously leave a single red rose on the hood of his car.

He would suddenly acquire clairvoyance and know that it was me and that my love was true and pure and faithful and unending and he would sweep me off my feet and we would move somewhere far away and have a great studio apartment like on Friends and have lots of eclectic people around us with whom to celebrate thanksgiving and Christmas (so that we would never have to come back to Crescent City, God forbid) and I would make fantastic feasts for our bohemian crowd and my mom and dad would come to break bread with us. Then, after the guests had cleared out on these holidays we would light black cherry candles, wrap ourselves in warm blankets and our love, and make love on the floor as the rain fell outside.

Sometimes we would go to the roof of this fantastic apartment building I had constructed in my mind and dance to the sounds of the bars that wafted up from the street below. We would live together in delicious sin in a city that I am pretty sure was either New York or Seattle considering the massive amounts of cold weather and rain this daydream had woven into it. I would be a famous writer and he would do whatever it was that insanely attractive incredibly smart older men do for a living. We would have a Turkish Angora named Nefertiti who would take long naps on our burgundy comforter. We would drink tea and have the kind of sex that people had in the movies that involved moving in slow motion and kissing as though you were going to consume the other person’s entire existence and become part of them with the lightest brush of tongue against theirs and the gentle pulling of their lips with your own.

I had a very active imagination. And he was my first kiss.