Tim by Connie Smith

Dear Tim,

I just found out. Way late. I rarely get on Facebook. The poem brought up memories. And tears. I saw that you were married. By the looks of your photos, you were happy. I’m glad.

You and my mother had such a great time together working in her garden. You never kissed me, not even my cheek, but you kissed hers. And you kissed our dog when you carried him around and talked to him like a baby. My father didn’t have much to say to you. He never talked to babies or dogs, or guys who were interested in cucumbers. But you and he did have that one good conversation, when you told him your family owned a plumbing business. He was cool with anything to do with business, especially owning.

You sat with us at lunch. Cathy, Lori, Beth, and me. All the girls liked you. And you liked them. But I was the one you went with. You never made my heart race like Alan did, but you and I were more than friends, for a whole summer. At least that’s how I felt about it, and I thought you did too. We hung out at the lake. You taught me how to slalom and jump the wake. It was fun walking across the bridge to the pizza place. You gave me that gold name bracelet. Not the same as a ring, but still special.

We used to lie on the grass and talk about names, how they conjured up colors in our minds. Timothy was green, celadon to you, more like lime to me, but green nonetheless. Cathy and Lori were both white. Beth was orange. We went down the alphabet and agreed on the color of every name but Mary. It was eerie. Though, I do remember that Sindy was yellow to you, but gray to me.

It wasn’t a formal thing, so we never broke up. We just drifted apart, after Alan asked me out. You weren’t one bit jealous. You even came over a couple of times and hung out with us on the patio. We ate popsicles and talked about the future. Alan wanted to go to law school someday. You wanted to have a farm and plant an orchard. That was so long ago, back when reading minds and reading between the lines were survival skills. There was a stigma attached to just about everything.

I flew out for the ten-year reunion, but you weren’t there. Cathy couldn’t make it either. Lori acted really strange. Beth was there. She told me you were still single, working in the office at the plumbing business, and that you couldn’t be there because you had tickets to see Reba McEntire in Charlotte. I don’t blame you. I would have opted for the concert too. School reunions are about comparisons, pride, and envy—all exhausting propositions. That was the only one I attended.

I searched for you right away when I signed on to Facebook. That was back in 2014.  But without thinking, I picked the Like button on a controversial post, caught a lot of flak for it, then regretted ever getting into it. I couldn’t figure out how to delete my account, so I moved the icon off my taskbar. I had intended to friend you.

Yesterday I decided to bring up Facebook, so I could follow a group I joined. The Meetup app is a mess, by the way. I had forgotten your middle name was Michael, also green. Shamrock to me. Do you agree? I read what your husband posted on your page. He was openly heart broken. Jeremy. Deep red to me. His poem was a lovely tribute. The photo of you under the blooming cherry tree, warmed my heart. You volunteered at the Boys’ and Girls’ Club, and the animal shelter. I’m not surprised.

I’m writing to you, but it’s only for me, because you will never see this. I know you aren’t looking down on me as I write it, because I don’t believe in heaven—it’s okay if you did—or the supernatural, like ghosts, or communing with the dead. Or Jesus. Burnt sienna to me.

I hope you weren’t in pain.

Love,

Sindy

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Photo by Robert Katzki c/- Unsplash