Remorse

     To think about her, is to write about her.

To write about her, is to ache over her. 

Not to write about her however, would be like to never remember the greatest moments one had in his life. 

I'm sorry I was so careless and reckless with your heart Ms. River. 

Remorse 

River leans over and tells me she as word for me. 

"Remorse." She whispers. 

I stare into her warm, blue eyes and click my ballpoint pen up and down and say, "okay". 

This is part of what we do. This is part of what we've done for the past two weeks. We give each other a word and write. 

Open your heart.

Let it bleed on paper.

Don't be a pussy. 

This is our Motto, our slogan for the small writers group we've formed. 

I place the tip of my red pen to my spiral bound notebook and I write. 

This was the day I found out my Grandmother had passed away. So I write about my Grandmother. 

I write about how when I was six, my Mother had a miscarriage which lead to a nervous breakdown and I went to live with my Grandparents in Minnesota. I write about my Grandma Donna, and the tiny bug eyed sunglasses used for tanning. I write about how she used wear them and walk like a frog in order to make me laugh, to cheer me up. I write about how when I was 13, I spent two weeks during the summer at their home in Ellendale, MN. How we used to pop popcorn and read the "Old Man in the Sea" by Earnest Hemmingway. 

While I press red ink against white paper, I turn my head slightly to the right, noticing River, and her soft porcelain skin and perfect pair of lips. 

I stop writing. 

I stop writing and close my eyes for just a moment and picture my lips pressing against hers. I breathe in a long breath and taste her lips against mine. In this thought, her lips are sweet and soft, as if sugar were gently poured over a soft feather pillow. 

I place my pen back to paper and I write about the time I received my first speeding ticket. I was going 45 in a 20 when I passed a police officer, hiding in a church parking lot. Walking through the side door of our house, my heart was pounding while I showed my Mother my ticket. I write about the time my Grandma Donna came down into my room and told me about the first time my mom was caught speeding. How she was going thirty miles an hour over the speed limit. How when she told my Grandpa and Grandma about her ticket, my grandfather started laughing and pulls out of his pocket a speeding ticket of his own. 

I stop writing. 

I stop writing and turn my head to the right and notice a pair of warm Mediterranean eyes starting forward. I stop writing and take four, maybe five seconds to notice these eyes, but it feels like forever. Before she can turn and catch me staring at her, I turn my head and close my eyes. I close my eyes and take a moment to remember the hug Ms. River gave me half an hour earlier. When she found out my Grandmother had passed away. I think of her warmth. I think of the sweet smell from her hair and the way her body felt against mine, they way my arms wrapped around her. The way we embraced for four, maybe five seconds, but it felt like forever. 

I click my ball point pen up and down and press it back to paper. I write about the last time I saw my Grandmother. It was at my cousin Amy's weeding. I write about how I went into her hotel room to say hello, and she was sitting near a window smoking in a non-smoking room. I write and I laugh because I think about how I tell her that she get fined if they catch her smoking in the room. How my Grandmother takes a deep inhale from her cigarette and tells me they can "fuck off!" She says. 

Tonight I click my ball point pen up and down and press ink against a different type of paper. A paper full of crossed out words and mistakes from the past, and the present. A paper full of holes and questions marks without a sentence to follow. 

Tonight I click my ball point pen and I write about Ms. River. I write about a smile that could stop traffic twenty miles away. I write about a laugh that wakes the sleeping butterfly's from the soft cocoon inside my bruised exterior. I write about shooting stoplights with extended index fingers and marching in circles while holding up makeshift signs. Shouting words like, "No Contract." and "No Peace." I write about dancing in streets while cars drive by and embarrassing moments in grocery stores. Lost wallets and Clerks who look like Hodor. I write about car rides up canyons and passionate kisses under bright stars.
Songs. I write about songs. Snow Patrol, The Decemberist's and Phenoix. I write about Wonderwalls and Why We Fight. 

My right hand moves from left to right and presses ink against a piece of paper unsure of it's future. 

I write about maple brown hair. I write about maple brown hair and how my fingers would trace through the strands of long beautiful hair. How our foreheads would meet while our two bodies became one. I write about naked pillow fights and laughter. Lots and lots of laughter. 

Tonight I click my ball point pen up and down and press ink against a different type of paper. 

Tonight I click my ball point pen up and down and write about remorse, a different remorse. 

Tonight I write about Ms. River. 

And how I love her. How I lost her. How I miss her. 

Tonight I write about love.