Saturday, April 6th, 2013
Word Count: 965
Usually when Paris visited the cemetery he did so on his own.
His relationship with his father had been so tense, so awkward, and so complicated for so long that in his father’s death it seemed wrong to allow anyone else to bear witness to a sort of grief and separation they couldn’t hope to understand. Paris was not always able to comprehend it himself, the pain and the loneliness that lingered still, when a year had passed to bring him a modicum of relief for the despair that had at that time consumed him almost entirely.
He knew that he felt protective of this place, and of the time he spent there. This small plot of grass among a sea of buried dead—this place, like Ganymede, was his own.
But though he could not share it with his friends, or even share it with his mother, who visited as much as he did, if not more, if the flowers he often saw by the stone were any indication, he could share some small piece of it with Chris, the only person who knew all of his faces, all of his emotions, and all of the different parts of himself Paris often kept hidden from others.
“What do you think he’d say if he were here now?” Chris asked.
They sat side-by-side on the grass in front of the stone marking Paris’s father’s grave, Paris’s eyes locked on the inscription while Chris clasped his hand, thumb stroking Paris’s palm before sliding up to play with Paris’s ring finger.
Paris shrugged and made a noncommittal sound, but after a moment of Chris’s patient waiting he said, “He’d’ve probably said we’re stupid.”
“Don’t know what the hell you’re doing, do you?” Paris could imagine his father saying.
Maybe he really didn’t know. He could still admit that there was a chance none of this would matter despite how confident he’d been in answering Chris’s proposal, how happy he’d been the day they were married a week ago. Maybe they’d rushed into it, failed to take the appropriate time they might have needed to come to the right decision. Maybe they should have waited longer, matured more, finished growing up before taking on such a grown up life.
But Paris didn’t think it had been a mistake.
“Do you think we are?” Chris asked.
“No,” Paris said. “Do you?”
“No.”
Maybe they hadn’t finished growing up, but who was to say they weren’t meant to do it together?
He didn’t doubt that other people might question them. Paris knew his mother, whatever she might say to the contrary, had been having a hard time coming to terms with it. She tried to pretend otherwise, and maybe there was a part of her that believed it was alright, but Paris could see that a greater part of her questioned his decision and worried for his future.
And that was alright, he told himself. It was okay to look ahead, to consider the “what if”s, to be prepared for the worst while hoping for the best, so long as a future that might not happen didn’t become more important than the present they were currently living.
“Dad liked you anyway,” Paris said, curling his right arm around his raised knees while Chris continued to play with his left hand.
“You think so?” Chris wondered.
“Yeah…”
“… kid’s got a nasty curveball.”
Sometimes when Paris closed his eyes and delved into his memories, he could imagine he was back there again, sitting with his father, speaking to him, learning from him whether he wanted to or not. It was sad that only now was he beginning to understand a man he’d lived with for eighteen years. One year without him had done more to bring Paris closer to his father than all the years they’d spent under the same roof.
Neither of them had ever been good at talking to one another, and perhaps that was the key to it.
Now they didn’t have to talk. All Paris had to do was feel.
He felt a lot of things as he sat there in front of the grave marker—sadness that he would no longer see his father’s face, hear his voice, be able to look into his eyes and see little pieces of himself there; regret that his father would never be able to share in the life he and Chris were making together; anger that the opportunity to truly know his father had been taken from him, that he hadn’t done more to know him then when he’d had the chance; grief that his efforts to help had been made in vain; helplessness, which always arose now without his father’s distant but steady presence. But beneath it there was something building, something gentle and light, that eased the pain and brought him hope.
It would never take the sorrow away completely, but it could bring a shred of relief.
And the beginnings of acceptance.
He felt it more strongly when the wind blew through his hair. Then Paris closed his eyes and focused not on his feelings, not on his memories, but on the world around him, as if he couldn’t truly see it until he wasn’t actually able to see.
Somewhere, in the wind, in the sky, in the grass, in the trees, in the flowers by the grave or in the birds that flew aloft, in the sun or the clouds or the stars, his father dwelled at peace.
“Do you think Dad and I’ll ever see each other again?” Paris asked.
His voice trembled, and behind his lowered lids Paris’s eyes grew moist, warm tears seeping out from beneath his lashes.
Chris’s hand tightened on his, fingers sliding between Paris’s to entwine together.
“Didn’t we?”
