My First Love was Long.
Long in the sense that we had a lot to discover. She was a bird. I was certain
I would become something. I saw her circling the branches of a sycamore.
Excuse me, I said, do you know where I can find the bathroom?
She told me to just go on the ground.
I felt the warmth leaving my body. Pooling beneath me.
For a moment. It was a puddle, floating on the surface. Then it sank into the dirt
and formed a deep, red mud. She watched the entire time. I was cold
and relieved. She sat on top of the tree, looking down at me.
I never would have done that, she said.
I pulled my pants up, tried to find her eyes. I almost apologized, but I just really had to go.
My second love wasn’t really love at all. I was just starting to take shape.
He was on sale at PetSmart, labeled “for beginners.”
What do I feed him? I asked the salesperson.
Warm milk, she replied, handing me a pamphlet.
At home, he refused to drink his milk.
I tried different kinds: organic, fat-free, almond.
I studied the pamphlet, which advised against force-feeding, so I made him a milk bath
and soaked him for several days. This is what someone who is capable
of being loved would do, I told myself. It felt like punishment: to watch him shrivel and prune.
He survived for eight days, though I couldn’t tell if he’d drowned or starved. I brought his body back to PetSmart. The cashier was apologetic: We have a seven-day-return-window, she said, reaching for the shoebox that was also a casket. Unfortunately, you don’t qualify for a refund.
I left without speaking. Returned to an empty house and drained the tub of thick milk. With nothing to remember him by, I focused on forgetting.
My last love arrived in the mail, wrapped in foam and labeled LIVE!
I was all body and bone. He was a soft-shelled turtle, barely bigger than the nail on my big thumb.
I did not order a soft-shelled turtle, I told him after an hour of silence. I think there’s been some sort of mistake.
He didn’t speak but craned his neck as if he were seeing me for the first time.
The tub was off-limits. PetSmart too. So, I placed him in the pond outside the house and did my best to avoid him. He tried to ignore me back, burying himself in the sand as soon as I let him go.
I told myself I didn’t care if he lived or died. I don’t care if he lives or dies, I would say.
Then I’d spread the blinds wide and watch him catching fish. When he chewed, the blood dribbled down his chin, but I didn’t look away and I didn’t think of milk.
On warm days, we were both drawn to the shore. There is nothing pooling beneath me, I would say to him, as we laid on the rocks to bask. He would crane his neck, looking, looking, and I could feel the heat rise in my bones.
Photo by Rory Tucker on Unsplash
