So what is he supposed to do now? Momma staring in the mirror with blood on her hands. Son of yesterday because we all forgot to give him a smile.

 

Write back, he pleaded. Sounding off in the garden late into Spring like the feeling of clouds, gray.

 

Stop! He shouted, but we laughed, and we continued. His heart cried for help. Let me see inside of you. Momma glaring in the mirror at all her money. Where’s daddy? With another bottle, another pill. Spoken like a true soldier. Where did he go at night? Alone in his room.

 

Write back. He passed me a note in class. After school detention for another tardy. Teachers in his face. You will never amount to anything.

 

Where did you go, Chris?

Where did you go, Robin?

Where did you go, Kurt?

 

You were his friends. Speak in class today.  He’s waiting in the bathroom, scribbling on the walls to write back. Momma fixing her hair and make-up for another date while daddy is past out under the sky.  At home in my journal waiting to write back.

 

Let me drink this bottle like him, the boy cried. Straight F’s on his report card. Suspensions. Ignored. Bored. Numb. Harmless. Loner. We called him until it was too late for momma. Not soon enough for daddy. Write back, he said as he passed me another note. Disposed inside his own home, the welcome mat, far and few in between.  Spoken on black doors covered in momma’s fake promises to be a mother.

 

We’ll do it tomorrow.

Where’s dad?

Why do you give a shit? He doesn’t care about you.

 

His creased pants, a silk tie, and a navy blue suit now tucked away in a box.  Boom! Like the sound of a textbook slamming on the hollow floor. The call to his momma who didn’t answer. Leave a message after the beep. We regret to inform you, said the sheriff. Write back, he said to me. God! Don’t! The last sound, tired and forever.

 

What was his name?

Yeah, something like that.

What ever happened to him?

It was in the newspaper.

 

Tomorrow will be 7:01. a.m. again, 7:02 a.m. again, 7:03 a.m. again.  And the arrows of life continue but without him. He made himself disappear so we would forget his name.

Write back. The guitar in the rain; the child burning on fire; his arms spread like crow wings.

 

Write back, he said.

Write back, please.

 

He passed me his last note, but I forgot to write back, and when I forgot, he unleashed his final surprise. Why am I fucking connected to a boy with no name who I never met?

Maybe because there’s some of him inside all of us.