Gail

...
Climbing up should be easy enough. I can sit up there and no one will bother me. It'll give me time to think, to ponder, to remember. The worn out duck tape on my wilderness Sketchers scrapes against the ground, picking up pebbles and reminding me of how sketchy my sketchers are. Cheap shoes. When I finally make it to the top I lean back against the wall and just stare out over the city in the direction of the football field.1

So this is it. You're dead.2

Wow. Never thought I could say something like that to you. I guess I really can't say that to you though can I? Because...well...yeah.3

It stands to reason that when you die you might have time to think about it. A car accident. When I think about it I sometimes wonder if you had time to think about dying. It’s cold up here on the ledge. I guess I shouldn’t care. Two and a half years in the Windy City and I should know better anyway.4

Six years gone since I last saw you. Still, I remember your face and your voice and the feel of the shirt you were wearing when I last danced with you. That sounds so romantic. It wasn’t. Remember? We were in seventh grade. You asked me to dance. Then you asked me out. Other than me saying “okay” twice that was all that was said until you ended it five days later. Heck, even then you did it with a note.5

Cold wind, cold ledge, I feel like the cold is climbing up the rough stone wall, in through the torn up soles of my sketchers, up my legs and into my stomach. My heart is still beating, but it doesn’t feel anything. Car horns and angry voices rise up from the streets meeting in front of McDonald’s. What a cheap world. It smells like gas, fries and a messed up inability to understand the meaning of life. It reeks.6

Right, the dance. It was a silly dance in the gym. I don't think I danced with anyone else that night other than you. Probably because I was a goon...and bored. Why is it now that you're dead I remember so clearly what it was like to dance with you?7

The 18 inch rule.8

Heck, there was enough room for Jesus and at least two of the apostles between us. Dating you was interesting like driving through Kansas for five days. A whole lot of nothing. Is it so strange to think about this now? When you're...yeah, well, I guess I told you once already.9

Some people might laugh if they were reading this and I said I wouldn't tell you that you were dead more than once...because I didn't want to rub it in. They wouldn't laugh if they'd danced with you that night.10

You're dead. Why? What purpose will come of this? What will your little brother remember of you when he's older? I remember him...I think I remember his name...Dusty? Dustin? I wish I could be there for him, even though he might not remember me. He used to try to get me to chase him in the church parking lot...just for fun...I wish now that I could. Marcella and Eddie. I hope that if you did have time to think about dying, you'd know that they loved you. Dustin too.11

A car accident. Thinking about a car accident makes me picture an explosion, not a fiery one, but an explosion of metal, tires, glass, time...faith. When something does explode, I guess it changes. For at least a few people the world changed when your life exploded that night. I wonder how many people know that you’re dead? Better yet. How many people know that you were alive?12

I do.13

I know you can't hear me Gail. I know you're gone. But I still remember you. I still remember dancing with you and not knowing why…or how. I remember that split second where I was man enough as a thirteen year old to look you in the eye and make a memory in that moment where I would remember it now...nine years and one car crash down the road. I want to cry, to run like I used to until I would collapse and let my soul's pain wash away in the weariness and agony of pushing myself beyond my physical limit. I want to do something, to be somebody who could do something. But I'm just an old acquaintance who danced with you once in 7th grade, who dated you for five days and never said a word. I left you a cool collector's coin in your book that year. I still don't really know why.14

Why would I remember that now? After all this time? Why do I remember you at all? Why do I feel so numb? Why can't I run screaming into the streets to show all of the north side of Chicago that someone here remembers you...why can't I cry until I can't anymore...why can't I show everyone that I am sad that you are gone?15

Even though we never shared a romantic love...or had any sort of tangible friendship...I still remember you. I can remember your voice, as clear as day. Like you were speaking to me, or near me to someone else. Near enough to hear that thick southern accent you used to put into your speech...it still rings clear in my mind.16

I hadn't seen you for years, maybe once, when I heard. My mom told me and I didn't feel a thing. She told me and I felt nothing.17

I'm sorry.18

Is it enough to say that? Can I say that? Gail...I played no huge role in your life...five days and a dance...but I promise you I will do something. I know you can't here me...but God can. I promise you that...that, that what?19

I promise you that I will remember you. Gail Turner, you were a good woman.20

... 21

She looked up at the strange figure perched high above the street on the ledge, back against the wall. The bank had been closed, but she’d had just enough money to buy what was needed. She looked down at the plastic bag in her hand. If she did not hurry the half gallon carton of milk was going to…22

The bottom of the bag gave way a moment before she could think that it would. A carton of milk looks so much different splashed all over the sidewalk. When you don’t have enough money to go back and buy another carton, spilled milk looks even more different. The cars on the street paid her no mind, honking their horns and yelling whatever they thought would hurry things along or vainly satisfy their unjustified anger. If a dog would have walked over and started lapping up the milk it wouldn’t have tasted the old lady’s tears. She just stood there and looked down at the milk on the sidewalk as it slowly moved towards the street with the slant of the poorly laid concrete. The tears in her eyes glistened in the light of the street lamps.23

She did not know why, but she looked up to see if that person sitting up on the ledge was still there. He was standing on the other side of the puddle. Wearing an odd stocking cap and a green coat, he looked much warmer than she did in her Charlotte Hornets jacket and faded slippers. Something sad in his eyes. The look on his face made her decide that he somehow didn’t look warmer than she was anymore. He was staring at her.24

She flinched when he held out his hand. A twenty. His hand fell back to his side as the bill crackled in her hand, her arm still stretched out in the act of receiving. The milk had made its way to her slippers. She didn’t move until it soaked through the dirty shoe, reaching her toes. Jumping, startled, she stepped back, eyes locked on the milk at her feet. The market would still be open for another twenty minutes. When she looked up the man was still looking at her. Maybe it was a boy?25

“¿Por que?” her voice was as old as she was. Maybe he spoke like she did.26

The boy didn’t say anything. He just stared at her for a moment longer, looked down at the milk, and walked away.