Turtle

Goodmorning, bebe.

You’ve got to remember the forts we had in Lynchburg. Jennie and I sat at the mouth of our stacked-triangle, collecting spores from mushrooms and rusty rings. We built the lean-to for you and Colette second, across the two-pronged bridge, the cut bank perfectly cupping a space beneath thin, warped saplings that curled down for a roof.
It was the same day as the turtle shell.
Flattening the foliage, we cleared the fort floor. Except by the shell. Because it was right-side-up, we were almost convinced at first that it must be living. But Jennie and I poked and prodded it without response so my initial interest turned to disgust.

It was dead.

It must be dead. And if we were to flip the slick shell over, out would crumble leafs of wet, rotting turtle-meat. And possibly small turtle bones right there under the bent trees. And what if it got on my shoes? Or my hands? But we wanted to know so badly, curiosity exploited our absolute longing to know what was really happening beneath. And we couldn’t. In the end we couldn’t because what was possible was just too scary so we left the shell in your fort, left it conspicuously seated on a layer of leaves surrounded by swept ground and we returned to our own hold.

And of course you flipped it. And you know what else? I bet you didn’t think twice. I bet you ducked your head beneath the saplings and reached out and grabbed the damn thing. Most likely there were broken leaves in your blonde curls and loose bark Velcroed to your socks and you just walked in and flipped it.

I woke up this morning realizing that maybe you have always been the brave one.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this door lately. I’m not sure why, but remembering home and the holidays reminds of this door at the bottom of the basement stairs in Mr. and Mrs. Warson’s house. I think it might be white, or maybe it’s wood, but it has a window, like an outside-door. Maybe so you can see if someone is racing down the stairs toward you. And I can feel what it’s like to shut that one door. I hope I’m remembering it right.

Because it wasn’t always like that.
I think it must have been about eighth grade when there was a New Years Eve party in that basement. Ashley and I were going, and once we were welcomed in and directed down the stairs she and I stood looking at one another, listening to the revelry behind the door, each trying to steel the other into opening it.
You see, it didn’t have a window then.
And in the end there was just too much fun going on behind that whiteness and we left. We convinced ourselves we didn’t REALLY want to go anyway, it wouldn’t be THAT much fun, no one we ACTUALLY wanted to see was there, the other plans we had were WAY better obviously and ran back up the stairs and out of the house.

Years later I think I painted that white door. But that’s a different story.

Am I remembering this right?

It’s like now I have all these shirts with button-up necks, you know? Like turtlenecks that have buttons down the nape. Except that for the life of me I can never remember to unbutton them before I try and pull them back over my head at the end of the day. I feel like I’m seven again. And what the hell am I going to do with all these turtlenecks anyway?

For a very long time I justified my behaviors in one way. It was easy to explain. I did things the hard way when necessary, or even just when I could BECAUSE I could. I was trying to prove something, prove this, so that you wouldn’t have to. I’ve told Kris time and time again, I was just trying to pave the way for her, trying to make things easier for when she came along behind. But I get it. I mean why would you want to walk on asphalt. Behind me is road and the tar sticks to your feet so that your flip-flops all turn black and you want grass and green and the untamed and that makes so much more sense.

I love and miss you every small, stupid breathing moment, Lin.