There were small things, unnoticed by everyone but me, that he did.
A secret communication between us and us alone.
He hid his feelings behind stupidity even though he had intelligence
enough to deceive the casual observer.
Ours was a mysterious bond.
He seemed cruel and cold and I seemed too forgiving and sweet.
Everyone thought me a saint, patience was a given gift of mine.
He ran wild as if he were a young child and when he returned
from the days and nights of rambunctious flights of fancy
I would hold him and warm his bones.
I’d protect him from the perils he sought out to find in his every indiscretion.
I smiled when he told me the stories he loved to tell.
He relished in the absurd.
He hid behind the black comedy of the adolescence
he knew and hid under his mother’s insanity,
claiming no responsibility for his actions.
His shoulder, small and angled, shrugged off every accusation of guilt.
His eyes danced with the devil behind the shadows in which he found peace.
He’d place endless secrets in my care and I cherish them all and keep them locked away
with all the battered bruises of our spoiled lives.
I wasn’t his.
I wasn’t his mother.
I wasn’t even necessarily his friend.
I was his lover.
He seemed to keep everybody at bay.
Never allowing the truth of himself to be exposed
to the harsh weather outside his comfortable abrasive skin,
his cactus exterior sharp yet soft and somehow perfectly balanced.
I loved him, and in moments of grief, moments of confusion, he showed through.
Small gifts
of nothing significant to anyone other than me showed he cared.
What those were are mine and I selfishly hoard them inside my memories
of what was him
and what defined me.
And as much as I miss him,
I love the memories more.
Written by Barbara Doduk September 13, 1998