Stilts

My grandfather died last month.

He will not see me turn twenty-six on the nineteenth.
He will not conduct my wedding ceremony.
He will not meet my children.

The night after I spoke at his funeral I considered calling Imogine. I felt she was the only one who would have something worthwhile to say. Though we hadn't spoken since January, I scrolled through the electronic rolodex of my phone desperately aching for solace; hoping I still had her number.
Ding! A Snapchat update interrupted my search.
Call it fate, God, tragedy, or...a shitty hand, but it was what it was.
My device informed me that Imogine was playing a house show back in Nashville to which I had not been invited.

It's okay. I couldn't have made it anyway. 

Against my better judgement I kept observing. Same story. Different perspective.

Who needed to attend? I had it all on video anyway!

After absorbing what I was seeing I became physically ill.
The ambiance of the house surrounding Imogine struck a deep and haunting chord. It was too grotesquely familiar. Brackish water memories.

 No. Not his house!

 "Take it back!" I groaned aloud.
  I pulled my knees into my chest.
  I held myself.

I listened to the clips
As the sound of Imogine's guitar
Hovered over the crowd,
Rang through the still, hollow vacancies
Where I once scrambled to collect my dignity
Beneath the oppressive weight
Of a sad boy
Who so desperately tried
To strip me of it.

I studied the rug beneath her
And remembered the way
It felt
Between
My toes
The night
He peeled
Off my clothes

Then told me to get lost.
To leave...
That it had all been

A mistake.

 Imogine was the first and only person I talked to about it.
 Because Imogine was in Spain.
 Imogine was awake after my long drive home.
 Imogine was the only person who was ever awake.

I tried to come up with a million excuses for her. I wanted to make it my fault. Nothing was potent enough to pierce the anguish. I allowed my body to steep in the endless portion of pain my once best friend had heaped upon me.

And I was grieved.
And I am grieved.

If it was deliberate,
It was felt.
If it was not deliberate,
It was careless.
I am still not sure which hurts worse.

I spent the rest of my night as a human pretzel in a vain attempt to hold my grandparents by death-gripping my Poppy's leather journal and my Nana's rugged bible.

I opened my clenched fist like a child and let the last shred of my innocence evaporate into the inky night until sleep overcame me and ushered me into the next hollow morning.
Every morning has been hollow since.

I forgive you, I guess. But mainly because I can't contain the pain of it. And it seems there is nothing else I can do but forgive you because everything else just hurts. I wish I could forget you, too. 
 
The hurt pulsates like a toothache. Praying hands don't heal it.
I don't go to church anymore. Everything there feels unsatisfying-like I'm being fed regurgitated food twice chewed for me. I love the Lord too much to eat it. I love myself too much to eat it.
I just want something new.

I have this hope that once I turn twenty-six I can start over and just forget the past twenty-five years ever existed. "Take off the old man, put on the new man..." something like that.

Then maybe the emptiness won't swallow me whole.
And the bigness of Christ will strap stilts to my legs and make me grow
Tall, tall, tall.

 And when I'm tall, maybe it won't hurt anymore because I will be invincible.
 And far past the horizon I will see the end.

 And Jesus will be there.
 And the striving will cease.