These Dreams Which Cannot Last

by Matt Flickinger

  It’s not where it all began but close enough. The grass, totally dead now, dots the dirt in tufts down to the river bank. Our river bank. Sit and look at the water. Tiny white waves spilling whispers, none of them promises, that die before they reach the shore. Wipe your eyes again. There are enormous rivers in the world worthy of bigger stories, but ours is a tiny river, a little story.

  Wrap your arms around my shoulders. Bring your other hand across my stomach and grab my hip, drawing me onto your lap. Kiss me as deeply as you know how. Not like love, not exactly. But right now, right here, we can fall back. Into all that is coming, even if we will not be together for it. Fall back. Kiss and grasp. And hope to hold on tight enough now for everything that comes after. Slide your hand down my waistband, without stopping to consider what you should do. Lift your hips, and pull your waistband down far enough. Let me grab your wrists and move your hands up my shirt. Even if you don’t know what comes after all that has come before, I believe in you. You know what to do next.

  Take my face in your thin fingers. Listen to the river lapping and blooming over its shores. Before we fall into each other, look at me. I am scared too. And even if you can’t picture, can’t consider, we can both know. As impossible as hope is, maybe it will carry us across rivers and down long roads between towns. Our dream was short. Too many good ones are. Now say goodbye.

  Epilogue

  Here and Now

  Aunt Mellie sits on the front porch with a glass of wine in her hand, a glass of water waiting on the table next to her (just like every other afternoon). Zain pulls his shirt from his back waistband and wipes his face. ”You got a package. It’s in your room.” Mellie hands him the cool glass, “how was your run?”

  “Good,” he says. “Hard.”

  “Even district champion mile runners need breaks, you know.”

  “Freshman division champions.”

  “Yes, even them.”

  “Not if he wants to race Varsity next year,” he says. “Who’s the package from?”

  “Go check, champ.”

  Zain gulps down the rest of the water and hands the glass back to Aunt Mellie, both of them smiling.

  The handwriting on the envelope is familiar. He tears open the package and a glossy book slides out onto the bed. On the cover, an angry looking hornet in a graduation mortar board curls his body over the words “River Valley High. Here and Now.”

  Zain sits, laying the yearbook across his lap. He flips it open. Across the inside of the front cover Charlotte has written a short message, “Thanks for the portrait! You’re so talented.” Under her signature, there is a number, 181. He flips through the book, stopping on the page. Across the top of page 181, in bold letters, are the words, “Fine Arts – From Idea to Completion.” In the bottom right corner there is a photo of Zain’s contest piece. The caption reads, “Freshman Zain Thompson’s untitled artwork was runner-up in the Visions from the Border District Art Contest. Photo by Charlotte Hanson, staff writer and photographer.” Next to the photo of his piece is a Sharpie smiley face and two words, “Last page.” Zain turns to the back of the book.

  Someone has drawn a big XC at the top of the last two signature pages in the book. Underneath the letters, both pages are filled. Messages and little drawings and signatures and Instagram and Twitter handles and phone numbers cover the pages, from corner to corner. Zain reads every word. The last message is from Charlotte.

  “We miss you! Totally, Charlotte.”