So why did I think about her every second? Why was I so much happier the minute I saw her? I felt like maybe I knew the answer, but how could I be sure? I didn't know, and I didn't have any way to find out. Guys don't talk about stuff like that. We just lie under the pile of bricks.
Lying on the ceiling. Refusing to go to school. Not opening up to me. Climbing water towers. "No, she's all right."
Lies, lies are the place where darkness grows.
In death, lie. In living, cry. Carry me home to remember to be remembered.
Just as I lay back, she sat up. I sat up, and she flopped back down. Awkward. That was my every move when it came to her. Now we were both lying down, staring up at the blue sky.
No, books. She would have maybe twenty going at a time, lying all over our house--on the kitchen table, by her bed, the bathroom, our car, her bags, a little stack at the edge of each stair. And she'd use anything she could find for a bookmark. My missing sock, an apple core, her reading glasses, another book, a fork.
I would love to say how nice it is to see you again, but that would be a lie. And I am nothing if not honest.
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