Alison made for the world
There’s a train track that passes under 149th Street between Roosevelt and 41st Avenues in Queens.
When I was a fat kid, another boy once told me that he would kill me.
Don’t remember why; do remember that I believed him.
I was terrified. To the point that I seriously contemplated hurling myself in front of that train to avoid that.
Remembered wondering what I should wear. How odd.
Suppose all bullied kids have had similar thoughts. It’s unbearably sad to me when I hear of one going through with it. And yet depression and suicide have made regular appearances in my life, not just with me but with those close to me.
Never had the nerve to make that final cut. A good thing.
The oddest thing about Alison’s passing is that, since at least March, I’ve gone in the opposite direction.
I’m terrified about getting injured or, even worse, dying. Need to survive to take care of the boy. It’s a feeling I’ve never had before – the need to survive – not even for Alison when we were deliriously in love.
Alison used to tell me alla time that she loved me like a fat kid loves cake. That always made me laugh.
Alison loved me. But she didn’t need me. Didn’t want her to.
(When Alison was pregnant and before the cancer)
Her: What if I need you?
Me: You don’t. I don’t want you to. You need to take care of the kid. A boy needs his mama.
And he still does. But she’s not here. Wish she was with ever atom in my body but she’s not.
I am, though. Man, I was supposed to be the backup if everything went to hell. Everything went to hell.
Now I’m it cause this kid needs me. Like, he literally cannot survive without me.
Nuthin – no one – has ever truly needed me before like he does now.
I’ve never felt such a heavy and awesome responsibility before. It’s terrifying, really. It’s as terrifying to me as that bully that threatened to kill me.
Yet, each morning, I push all of it to the side of my mouth.
Each morning, it’s the same: I wake up to the sound of him on the baby monitor: Papa! Daddy! Papa!
Each morning, I wish he was calling for her.
And each morning I get up, stagger to his door, take a deep breath, and straighten up. I smile my widest smile and say in the happiest, most awake voice I can muster as I open his door:
Good morning! How did you sleep?!
Him: (laughs) Papa! Daddy! (jumps up and down furiously in the bed, laughing)
And I think: God, I love this little person that Alison made for the world.
I love him like a fat kid loves cake. More, even.
Music: I can barely define the shape of this moment in time
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