Fire and Rain [🗸]

30. fire and rain

THE DAY WE SPLIT, I REMEMBER standing along the side of the train tracks, eyes on my human sunflower as she stepped onto the train. 

She was smiling, curls tousled by the breezed, tossed every possible way. She was wearing a dress, golden-yellow, which made sense. Sunflowers ought to be golden. 

The doors would close soon, and so she kept on moving out of the way as busy somebodies and nobodies slipped into the train, escaping the lazy town. She'd meet my eyes every time she had to get out of the way, almost like she was trying to make sure I was still there.

I was still there.

The sun burned the day up, bright and promising and unapologetic, burning up the sky. Still, it had nothing on her.

Nothing on the way she laughed or grinned or met my eyes with a cautious gaze.

It felt like a piece of cinema, that day. Like someone was going to peek out of the bushes with a clapperboard and yell "Cut!" 

I'd be in Greenport for the rest of the year, working through my journalism course and working at the diner. Because this town has always been me. Running my fingers over the walls of the home I grew up in, sitting in the same diner booth the Greenport Gang would congregate in during our middle school and high school years. 

Luciana, well. I know she loves this town. She loves it in a way that you love an ex. Heartbreak, memories. She can spend a few weeks here, not her life. Too much history is rooted in this town. 

The week before, the Greenport Gang had eaten lunch at the Castillos. It had been awkward as fuck. Luciana was a mix of feelings. But she had been happy that we got to have this before summer ended. 

It wasn't perfect. Not even close. But neither was this town. 

In front of me, the train doors closed. Luciana blew me a kiss. When Luciana blows me a kiss, she takes her index and middle finger and presses them softly against her lips as though she wants you to remember every deliberate motion she makes. Then she reaches out and holds her hand in the air in a wave. 

When she waved, I waved back. 

She smiled.

The train left the station.

Next holiday, next break, next summer.

When I walked home that day, my heart wasn't heavy. 

AND NOW, I STAND AT THE DOCK ONCE MORE. My curls just reach my shoulders. I've been trying to cut my hair myself. I'm shit at it. 

I video call Luce or the Greenport Gang often. We're in different cities. Hell, Elliot and Azul are even out of state. But we make time for each other when we can. We talk and connive and work up far-fetched plans. 

Today, we come back, once more, to the place we started. It's the beginning of our summer of being 22. Azul says that we should "forget whatever I said about all our other summers. This is it. We're twenty-two. No summer will compare."