The blue ambassador, you and me, in the back seat. You get a beautiful brown glass bottle, the sun shines on it’s neck, its full of beer. Mum was looking at us, imperious. You crack it open, you put crushed ice in it and tell me that someday when I grow up, we’ll have drinks together.
That day never came.
The ambassador turned metallic maroon and then went away, to ply as a taxi-cab for its new owner, who painted it again, a pall white. I have wondered, in moments sufficiently aloof, where that car, if at all living, would be today.
I grew up, fast.
Nowadays, you, very often would drink from a glass bottle, no ice. Sufficient mead and yeast in you, you would try to tell me a story. The same story, again and again, with no end in sight.
I grew impatient.
You would sit in the study cum bedroom, on your swivel chair, study table to your left, bed at your feet, your feet on the bed, me sitting on the edge, of the bed, facing you. The round red table lamp glowing with a yellow 100 watt bulb, too bright to read in, too bright to sleep in, your lit cigarette burning a hole in your thick woollen pyjamas. The bottle, now clear glass, brown liquid, no ice, half empty, urging you onwards with that very same story.
I grew impatient, and left.
Never again did we meet on good terms. You wanted fantasy in a life that had none. I wanted my life to become the fantasy it would never. I had an intuition that at the end of that story was a secret you want me to know, a catharsis, a moment, when we would know we were alive and it was important and it…we would hug dearly and cry. A moment I wished would never come, because I hated the stink of cigarettes and brown liquid. The moment never came, you never got to the end.
And then, you were gone.
Not forever, no. I intend to meet you someday, far into the future. You need to answer my questions. Including, ‘why? ‘
That secret you wanted to reveal in your stories is forever locked now. Safe. I still sometimes think of that time, that time of the round red table lamp, and feel a longing to know the secret. At times like these, when I am sufficiently lonely, I do miss you.
I have survived several heavens since you left, and a few hells, but, if there’s a final garden and I hope there is, then…
I can have anything I want. So, I want many of me. One of me, looking at all those moments. One of me, listening to that final secret you wanted to tell me and then one of me, in that blue ambassador, with you and your beer bottle, beautiful brown, crushed ice in it, the sun, shining on us.
And then one of me is telling you about that girl I miss, and that girl that never was, the girl I had a crush on and the girl who got away, the girl I am head over heels for now, the girl who has just blocked me away, the girl who is around me all the time and maybe that time is all in my imagination. Wait, I think I am talking about the same girl, but, why are you listening to my girl-rant? Stop prying! What the hell dad?! Stay the fuck away! I need my space!