Typical Individuality

Or How Diversity Unites Us

Lizz Schumer

Lizz Schumer
Location
Buffalo, New York, USA
Birthday
August 13
Title
writer, editor, reporter, photographer, propagator and patron of the arts: all.
Company
http://lizzschumer.com
Bio
Author of "Buffalo Steel" (Black Rose Writing 2013), I'm the editor of a small newspaper in upstate New York, hold an MFA in creative writing from Goddard College. I also freelance for several publications, both print and online.

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APRIL 26, 2012 9:03AM

Summer lovin' in song

Rate: 1 Flag

I miss our tender moments. Remember the concert where you draped yourself over my shoulders and fell there, like dead weight against the dove-curve where my neck meets my back? You were heavy and real against me and the smell of your hair engulfed my nostrils. It was unpleasant to everyone except us. I never told you that. 

And at the time, I was annoyed that you weren’t enjoying the moment like I was, upset that you closed your eyes and hung there, weighing me down. What I didn’t know is that, years later, I would hear that song and have you here again, the way you were. The way we were. 

What I mean to say, in my clumsy way, is not that I miss what you became toward the end. I’ve spent years looking for ways to rationalize your actions, your words, the thousands of tiny cuts that bled us dry. It’s that I miss who we were together, back when we were sheltered by that final endless summer. I miss the way the sun kissed your forearms and turned the dark hair golden, so when I smoothed it down, my hands were spinning flax. I miss the way you looked at me as the sun waved goodbye across the horizon and the shadows played across your face as I watched. You swore you’d never turn to the darkness I saw rumbling beneath the surface.

 You lied.

But so did I, as our golden summer withered on the vine. We both turned with the autumn leaves to people we did not recognize, and the souls we became wanted nothing to do with the spirits who danced in the warm July rain.

So I just wanted to say, as the last chords fade of the song you never liked as much as I hoped you would, that I miss who we were back then. And when I cry for what we’ve lost, I forget the pain that wrenched us away from ourselves toward a harsher interpretation of reality. The music changes to a song we never heard together and your former glory recedes back into the cobwebbed corners of my memory. I can go back to resenting you for everything you did after change washed the kindness from your eyes.

And forget that once, for an indeterminable moment, we were beautiful. 

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