According to her blog, the woman, who calls herself “The Roadkeeper,” attends the National Poet’s Convention every year--another reason I’ve always wanted to go. I have no idea if she is popular or if her blog is as big of a deal to others as it is to me, but in a way, I kind of hope it isn’t. Whenever I read her poems it feels like they’re speaking to me, even if they aren’t about me. They are so rich with language, so beautiful and touching and a total escape from reality, and it’s one of those things I just want to keep to myself. To cherish. To be for me, and only me.
There are three new poems on the blog since I last visited. I start reading them immediately, relaxing as their words and stories carry me away.
The first is titled Rose, about a girl whose name is Rose and who also has found peace by drowning her sorrows in roses. She has roses all over her house, in her bed, in her bookshelf, under her pillow--they make her feel better, so she keeps them close. She doesn’t ever leave her home, so the narrator, who is hopelessly in love with her, stays standing by her door for days, holding a bouquet of the same red flowers, waiting for her to step outside. But she never does. The narrator keeps waiting and waiting, trying as hard as possible to get her attention, throwing rocks at her window and singing and dancing and everything, but nothing works. Nothing gets her attention. So, right on the brink of giving up, the narrator stops waiting, throws open the front door, and rushes inside, not stopping until the roses are in the girl’s hand and she knows all about the narrator’s love for her. And then they hug. And sob. And live happily ever after.
I keep scrolling, already feeling the weight from the day lifting off my chest. Poetry just does that to me; it makes me feel free. It makes feel happy. I love the artistry to it, the openness, the daringness. I love that poets aren’t afraid to say what they have to say, or what needs to be said, and more than that, I love that through reading and writing poems, I learn that there are others out there. Others like me. Others who are self-hating, who have people in their lives trying to fix them even though they don’t want to be fixed, others who are broken and who pretend to be people that they aren’t. Others who are scared.
The next poem, Note For You, features a young orphan boy who always wanted a brother. He never cared about getting parents; he just dreams and dreams of one day finding a brother. He writes little notes to himself every day, every morning and every night, and lets them glide away with the wind as he wanders the streets with no home to go to. There is one girl he has always crushed on, a girl with “dark hair” and “gorgeous blue eyes,” and every time he passes her he wants to talk to her, to touch her, to kiss her, but he can’t stop his search for a brother. So he keeps going on like that, passing her and hoping, wishing she would notice him, but she never does. Finally, when he walks by her one day, he drops a note he wrote to her into her lap. She opens it up and he just jogs past her, too afraid to see the inevitable disgust in her eyes, to see the hatred he knows is there. But right before he turns the corner out of the alley, he looks back--just to see.
And she’s grinning at him.
I smile at the poem. It’s nice. Cliché, but nice. Not all of the poems on The Roadkeeper’s blog are perfect, and that may be the most beautiful thing about them: their flaws. Their rawness and honesty and perfection in lack of perfection. Poetry, to me, is a metaphor, an extension of life. It teaches lessons and morals in the most beautiful and unforgettable ways in the world, and poets aren’t afraid to voice opinions that need to be voiced, or to challenge issues that have gone unchallenged for far too long. I love the courage poetry gives me, and I love the characters it helps create, the issues, the fears, the lessons it explores. Poetry can be fluff, but it can also be stimulating; it makes you feel and it makes you remember that in the end, you aren’t alone. That in the end, there is always hope.
Ben was the one who initially got me hooked on poetry. He used to want to be an archeologist before my parents forced him down the path of becoming an engineer, and through his studying he discovered all of these ancient writings, many of which were poems. I would always look over his shoulder as he typed away at his computer and ask him to read those ancient poems to me, starting with The Iliad and The Odyssey and everything, and even though I never understand a word of the stories, I was always fascinated by the language, the beautiful and magical quality the words had. Soon Ben started showing me more modern poems, printing hundreds out for me and reading them aloud to me at night by my bed and sometimes even letting me read them on my own, and as I grew older, poetry became an inseparable part of me. Even when my parents forced Ben to study engineering instead of ancient history and archeology like he wanted, he always clung to me and my poetry. He still found me poems, still wrote some for me just like I wrote some for him. It was our own little thing through the worst of it all, and I loved it almost as much as I loved him.
After a while, my gaze drifts over to the last poem. It’s shorter than the rest, but the title, An Ode To You, From Me, From Frost, draws me in.
After reading the first few lines, it immediately gets my attention.
Frost once said that life always goes on,
that one’s song is never silenced,
so I should be fine continuing.
But Frost never met you,
he never saw your smile,
he never heard your laugh,
and he never knew.
He never knew like I know.
He never knew that you are the one
that you and all of your quirks have stolen my heart
that you are beautiful and not just in look,
that you make me feel like I matter and that I need you,
I love you.
Life does not simply go on without you,
my song does not live without yours,
I am not whole without you.
I often want to tell Frost
that he should shove it up his ass
which may not be the best idea,
but really what is there to do?
Because Frost was a moron
because goddammit he had issues
and he never felt what I feel,
never saw what I see.
There are not two roads when it comes to you;
there is only the road that leads to your love.
I can’t breathe the second I finish reading. My heart starts pounding and it’s like the words are reaching out of the computer and touching me, and everything from the last four years surges back to me. I should be making fun of how cheesy the poem is, but I can’t. I can only feel the hurt in my heart.
I want someone to write me a poem like that. I want to feel love like that. Or at least, I want to feel something. Right now, I’m just this near-dead-in-the-water, living-only-to-make-Logan-miserable waste of space. It’s like I find a way to ruin everything good in my life. I’m self-destructive, and I can’t help but think that no matter what I do, I’m only going to push people far, far away from me. I’m going to blow it. I’m going to live out my days like this: miserable and alone. Aside from Ruby, the only real relationship I have in my life right now is with Logan, and the only reason he doesn’t hate me is because--oh wait--he already does.
I hate what I’ve become. I hate how I have to pretend to be someone I’m not to escape the guilt. I hate how I brag about things that never happened, hate how I lash out at everyone who comes too close to me, hate how Logan Waters, my complete rival and part of the reason my brother is dead, is the one person I feel connected to anymore.
The tears are stinging in my eyes now, so I just storm around my room, kicking the chair and the TV desk and even my own bed. Pain shoots up through foot as my ankle connects with rock-hard wood, but I just suck it up and ignore it. I run from one end of the room to the other, letting out a partial scream and feeling like I could just collapse in the corner and cry for eternity.
But I won’t cry.
I won’t.
I crumple against the wall, my body tremblin
g, and suddenly one word hits me like a punch in the gut: Ben.
I miss Ben.
I miss Ben.
I miss Ben.
I remember everything from the night he died. I remember the sirens flooding our neighborhood, the snowy December air freezing me to death as my parents, Logan, and I huddled together outside of our house. Investigators started seeping in and medics radioed to each other about whether he was still breathing, and I was just shivering and shivering and trying not scream. We all stood there and fought off tears, told ourselves we would be strong, we would get through this, we would stick together because the gravity of what just happened hadn’t hit any of us quite yet. My parents kept asking me if I was okay, if I needed anything, if I was ready to deal with the truth and I lied and said that I was fine, that I was ready. Mom kept covering her eyes with her scarf so that I knew she was crying, and Dad did this thing where he kept trying his best not to sob and so when he couldn’t stop them, his sobs were as loud as the sirens. As the snow fell down and the blue and red police cars lit up our normally pitch-black neighborhood in the dead of night, Logan and I just held each other tight and stood, frozen, hearts pounding, not believing what just happened.
It took three days before the fact that Ben was gone forever finally sunk in, and three more before the blame followed suit. First I blamed my parents, then Logan, and then, most painfully of all, myself.
I should’ve noticed the signs. I should’ve realized that all those nights where I heard crying from somewhere on the roof was actually Ben, Ben’s tears, Ben’s loneliness. I should’ve realized what was happening before it happened. I should’ve done something--anything--to stop it.
I remember things from the night it happened. I remember that no one was home when Ben died, that I was at a friend’s house and Mom and Dad were at a dinner party and Logan was watching TV in his family room. I remember how the house looked before I left it: dark and quiet and sad, as if it was warning me of what was about to happen--another sign I ignored. I remember the cold, the snow falling on the windowpanes, the slight but chilling breeze that whipped through me as I stepped inside my friend’s house and started gossiping with her about shit that felt all too important at the time. I remember Ben calling me a few hours later, his voice all tired and off. He kept asking me if I thought today had been good, if my life had been good, if he had been a good brother, and I just laughed because it was such a weird question and said yeah sure I was okay and of course he was a good brother and why was he asking? And I not only remember him ignoring the question, but I remember the grunt he made at that, the sad little noise before he hung up, like he was gone before he actually was. I remember the click of the phone hanging up, and then I remember nothing at all.
Those were the last words we ever spoke to each other.
I remember everything from that night, the night Ben’s tears finally got the best of him, the night he bought a gun at a small hunting store in our neighborhood and decided to sit on the roof, once and for all. I remember the night he sat by our chimney like he always did--it was his favorite spot--and looked out at the sky and the stars and the moon and the snow and the complete, utter calmness of our dark neighborhood. I remember the night he pressed the gun to his head, took a deep breath, and squeezed.
The night he pulled the trigger, and our silent neighborhood wasn’t so silent after all.
~
She dreamed that one day, she would dance in a field of green
she would smile so often she would not even notice she is doing it
she would feel buoyant, light and happy and free.
She dreamed of a perfect life.
Of freedom.
Of love.
But it never came true, and now she doesn’t know
how to dream
anymore.
~
NO one knows why Ben did it, why he pulled the trigger. I always thought he was happy, except for those few times, and I guess so did everyone. After my parents and I moved into a new home on the site of their company in Silicon Valley (the thoughts of what happened in our old LA house became too much for us) I kept telling myself the suicide was all my parents’ fault because they tore him away from his true love--archeology--and that he was probably secretly miserable at their company. That’s why I refuse to work for them.
I tell myself it was Logan’s fault because they spent so much time together toward the end, and if anyone were to notice the signs, it should’ve been him.
I tell myself it’s my fault because I’d heard him cry before, because I knew something was off about him, and yet, I did nothing.
But I don’t really know whose fault it is, because he never left a note or anything, and that may be the worst part of all: the not knowing.
After a while, once my apartment goes dark and the tears have dried up, I clamber to my feet. I think about Logan that night, hugging me like he was my friend and like he really cared, like he wasn’t as to blame as I was, and then the fury rises up again, and I know what I have to do.
I wipe the tears from my eyes, clean up all of the lemonade spill and the upturned furniture from earlier, and I decide it’s time to pull a revenge prank on Logan--a really, really great one too. Pranking him has never failed to distract me before, and I am not ready for it to stop now. So I pull out Ruby’s makeup kit, put on black lipstick and mascara, slip one of her sketchy-looking dark leather coats over my head, and then, just like that, I’m ready. Before I leave the room, I take one last look at myself in the mirror. I don’t look like me, I realize. I look like someone entirely different, someone who doesn’t let anything phase her.
I’m glad I don’t look weak. I hate looking weak.
With a deep breath, I spin away from the mirror, grab my bag off the ground, and walk straight out of my room. An icy wind jolts through me as soon as I step outside, but the coolness is oddly refreshing. It seems to run along my body and wipe everything clean, clearing my head, my thoughts. It puts me right back into my factory mode: just another pretty face who can’t be fazed.
And that’s exactly what I want.
Without hesitating, I race down the stairs to the bottom floor, run up to the far end of the building, and stop at the room where I know he lives. I press my ear to the door for an instant, listening to see if he or Jaden are there. They aren’t, as usual; they’re probably out quizzing each other about useless math question or something. Whatever it is, I am sure it’s gag-me boring if it involves Logan.
Glancing around to make sure no one is looking, I pull a paperclip out of my pocket, bend it so it forms a single, small wire, and put it between my gritted teeth as I adjust my skirt. Then I carefully insert it into the lock, poke it around until I hear a click, and pull. The door swings open, revealing a completely dark room without as much as a sound. A small smile flickers across my lips. Let the pranking begin.
Needless to say, this is not my first time breaking into Logan’s room.
As soon as I’m inside, I close the door, flip on the lights, and head straight to his bathroom. Steam is still spilling from the open door as I enter--he must have left recently--and I immediately bend down by the toilet paper. I strip the roll of the normal paper and shove it in the trash, kicking it out of reach. Then I grab some duct tape from my bag and put it on the roll instead. It wraps around effortlessly, and I stand back, admiring my handiwork. It’s a good start--time to move onto phase two.
I’ve decided, given the suckish nature of today, that Logan deserves a three-pronged prank.
For the next part I head to the main room, where Logan’s bed is located. I bend down by the wall nearest the door, reach into my purse, and pull out a stack of two-hundred-something pieces of paper, all bundled together. I grab the top one and hold it in front of me to ensure everything looks good--it does. The poster is an uber-creepy stalker-photo I took of Logan mid-yawn the other day, with his eyes scrunched up and his expression all weird and convoluted. Let’s just say it’s not the mos
t attractive picture ever. Beneath his nose is a sharpie-drawn mustache I added for emphasis. I photoshoped a red “I HATE PEOPLE” hat on top of his head as well, just for good measure.
At the bottom of the image, his hands look like they are holding a sign, which reads: “WANTED: Logan Waters,” then in small font beneath it, “Fake-mustache serial killer, known pedophile, and well-hated for his obnoxious eyelashes.” I find myself nodding, as if to give my own approval, and then I get to work. I pull out several rolls of tape, then one-by-one I stick all two-hundred of the WANTED posters of Logan around the room. I work until they completely cover the walls, then the beds, then the sofa. I even tape some of them over the TV as well. When I’m finished, almost every inch of Logan’s room besides the floor is covered in the WANTED posters. I step back and release a sigh of relief, because they look pretty damn good, too.
Finally I move on to part three of the prank, the one to seal the deal. Without making a sound, I walk over to Logan’s bedside table, pull open the third drawer where I know his more cherished items are located--I know my way around his room pretty well, all from experience. I sift through the drawer for a few minutes before I find what I’m looking for. Buried deep in the back of the drawer, hidden from reach, lies two old pictures of Logan and Ben from seven years ago as they stand on the beach, shirtless and with their arms around each other, grinning like idiots (mostly because a hot girl they both used to crush on is the one taking the picture). Logan loves these two pictures. I know it because he used to show them to me all of the time.
The corners of my lips twitch into a smile. I know I’ve found what I need.
But at the same time, a sudden aching feeling of guilt seizes me as I look at the picture and think about how important it is to Logan, how it is one of the few things he has left of Ben, and I know how much he cherishes it. Destroying it will hurt him, will break him, and I feel my stomach twist even tighter at the thought.
Two Roads Page 7