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"Do you think a heart can just...die? On it's own, I mean?"
I play with the zipper of my parka, it's too small now, but I still wear it over my stretched out frame. It's worn in so many places, covered in a messy lace of sewn seams and patches. It's a patchwork of memories, barely anything of the original jacket even remains at this point. It's appropriate. It's a metaphor. I tell the boy sitting next to me that, and he just looks up with a grimace. He doesn't understand yet. He's got years to go, then maybe I'll explain it again.
"What do you want?" He finally asks, getting the daily question out of the way. I was wondering what was taking him so long. He normally lacks the patience to deal with me. He must've been trying extra hard for some reason.
"To talk, that's all," I shrug, tossing him a faint smile. He doesn't smile back.
"About what?"
"Hearts."
He shuffles uncomfortably on the bench, knitting his hands into tight little balls inside his green mitts. "Fine. What about them?"
"I asked if you think a heart could die."
"Oh. I was ignoring you."
Oh. So, not so much patience today, he just was pretending I wasn't there. I'm not hurt, or surprised, by this admission. It makes sense, I should have suspected it was the case. One time we tried ignoring Eric Cartman, and it worked so well he thought he was dead. Eric was only smart when it came to how to take advantage of others, in every other way he was stupid as hell. I think it was Kyle's idea that we ignore Cartman.
"Sorry," I reply, pushing my hair back from my forehead. It's getting long again, and I should probably cut it, but it always slips my mind.
"You should cut your hair," the red head beside me echoes my thoughts, giving me an appraising stare. Whatever he's looking for in me, it's obvious it finds it lacking. "And no, a heart can't just die. If it dies, so does the person. They're tied together."
"What if you get a heart transplant?"
"Then...uh...," he pauses, his brow furrowing as the idea ricochets around the inside of his skull, trying to fit into a space that will help it make sense. "Well, that's the heart muscle that dies," he explains patiently to me, like we're both children. "You're not talking about that though, I think. You're talking about feelings?" He looks up at me, a twist to his thin lips and the question still sitting in his thoughtful eyes.
"You're really good at this, Kyle. You're right. Do you think feelings die? Do they go away somewhere, and can they come back? What happens when we die?"
"I don't think they die, not like what you mean," his voice is hesitant, but strong. He's taking my question seriously, despite his earlier desire for me to leave. He has a hard time helping himself, once I get him thinking. Not many people around town can offer his brain much of a challenge, so I think he doesn't mind as much as he pretends to when I talk with him. "And don't call me Kyle," he corrects absently, tucking a red curl behind his ear. "I think that feelings can come and go as we live, we can forget things that were once important, but we can also be reminded of them and get them back. I think we can abandon them on purpose, like if they hurt too much, or if it's something impossible to get. When we die...I guess, we become someone else's feelings."
The answer startles me, and I draw in a breath sharply. It's not all that often that I get taken by surprise anymore, but he managed to do it.
"What was that?" He asks with an angry scowl pasted across his face. His eyes are staring into mine, intent and serious. It takes me back many, many years in a way that makes my heart race painfully in my chest. It isn't dead yet. "You think I'm stupid?" He demands, his balled up fists raised in as if in challenge. He would never fight over this sort of thing, but he gets awfully defensive when we talk.
"No, no," I jump in quickly to mollify him. "I wasn't expecting that answer, that's all. What do you mean by it?"
He nibbles his bottom lip worriedly a few moments, his eyes gone distant and deep inside himself as he thinks. The brisk fall wind is playing freely through his red curls, and it makes me smile in a pleasant sense of nostalgia. I look down at my own lap, worn jeans with holes in both knees, stains and scrawled words in ink covering my thighs. My own hands, rough and calloused now, the nails bitten down as low as I can. The backs of my hands are covered in scars, some nearly faded, some still angry and new against my tan flesh. I spend most of my time outdoors, so my skin has gotten pretty weathered over the years. I haven't had a sunburn in almost forever though, so that's a plus.
A soft voice breaks me out of my contemplation. "We, who we were, what we felt...we die, but we still are in other people's memories. They remember us, what was important to us. How we spoke, our actions, who was important to us. Those memories become tied up in feelings, and so we become a part of their feelings. Our feelings are passed on to the ones who remember us, and then their memories get passed on too."
This time it's my hands that ball up into fists. I want to shove them into my pockets to hide them, but I know the parka's fabric wouldn't give way to let me. I'd just tear the jacket more, and then I'd have to sew it up again. I've gotten skilled at it, but I know that one day that I'll be faced with the reality that it just can't be saved by needle and thread any further. I'd like to avoid that for another day at least. I focus on just willing my hands to stop shaking, to not show anything of what's going on inside my head. I try to shut everything down, but I'm a little too late. "What if everyone who remembers you has already died?" The question sneaks out from my lips unbidden, and I don't clamp down on it in time. I can hear the unsteadiness in my own voice, and it scares me a little.
He looks up at me, curiosity in his eyes as studies me. I can't meet his gaze, I don't want to. I have no idea what could possibly be going on inside his little head right now, and that scares me too. I wonder for the millionth time why I keep doing this. Why do I keep lugging my body all the way out here to this little park and sit on a weathered bench waiting to see if he'll show? Why does he come to see me? I don't really have answers to the second question, but I know the first one is simply because I'm lonely. I want to share some small part of myself and my life with others, and this is how I've chosen to do it. It might be a pretty crappy replacement for living a real life, but it's what's mine.
"It doesn't matter," his tone is serious, but tender. He sounds like he's trying to comfort me, or something ridiculous like that.
"You don't hafta, Kyle," I start to say. "You can jus--"
"My name isn't Kyle," he huffs for possibly the millionth time, rolling his eyes. "And I wanna," he continues, voice switching so easily from annoyed to reassuring. "Someone always has to be last," he reasons quietly, turning his body to stare out across the pond that sits in the middle of the park. "Someone is first, and someone is last."
Sometimes, someone is both, I whisper to myself. I don't want to interrupt him though, especially not by saying something so strange. The things I choose to talk to him about are weird enough already, I don't want him to think I'm pulling some kind of prank or joke on him by slowly getting weirder. It's best to not touch upon the things he'll find impossible.
"Being first is probably easiest. There aren't any obligations or expectations. You just go and hope for the best." He's quiet again for a moment, his eyes carefully blank and distant as he avoids looking at me, the same way I avoid looking at him. "If you're last...well...you aren't alone. The last one gets to carry the memories, the feelings, of all those they loved with them. They get to carry it all for themself. I think it would be really hard, and really heavy, but also...special. All those feelings still are living, but now they're all in one place, in one person. They get to stay like that until it's the last one's time to go and join everyone again."
The back of my throat hurts, it feels hot and tricky to breathe. I can feel my heart and lungs struggling to keep up with my mind, to keep ahead of the effect his words are having, but it's a losing battle. It's with a pretty huge amount of shame that I give in and let myself cry. Instantly my chest feels a bit better, but it only makes me realize just how much I hurt inside. I try to remain silent as I feel the wetness trailing down my cheeks, but my companion either heard me, or saw me from the corner of his eyes.
His small face is painted over with shock, and his gaze is truly miserable. His fists are lifted again, but it's more because he's uncertain and confused than angry. I've scared him today as badly as he's scared me. It's only fair, I suppose, but I feel all the more ashamed because of it.
I give him a half-hearted smile and try my best to keep my voice even despite the fact my eyes are still leaking tears. "Don't worry 'bout it, Kyle," I whisper hoarsely, pulling my exhausted body up off the rough boards of the ancient bench. I turn to look fully at him, taking in his worried expression, the wind bouncing the curls about his face, the bright orange jacket with green trim. Nostalgia overwhelms me again, and I round away on my heel, walking with slow steps back towards the place I'm calling home at the moment.
I get twenty steps away before a pair of small green mitts grab my arm and prevent me from going any further.
"I had a grandpa," he says softly to my back, and I think I can hear tears and confusion in his voice. I've fucked up a bit, this time. I got too involved, I said too much. He was too smart. "A great-grandpa, actually. His name was Kyle."
"Is that so," I reply softly, my spine rigid and my face still turned resolutely forward.
"He used to live with me, when I was really young. He told me all sorts of stories, about town, about when he was young." He sniffs, but continues, his voice unwavering. "I really loved his stories, they were all so amazing and impossible. I thought nothing like them could possibly be real. They were just stories my Great-Grandpa told me to make me happy."
"Adults do that," I confirm with an offhanded shrug. I feel his hands clutch tighter at my arm.
"He told me about his friends, who he grew up with. They were all a part of these stories. There was Stan, his best friend who was really brave and loyal and would always be there for him. Cartman was this really mean fat kid, who I'm not sure why Great-Grandpa hung out with, but he was the cause of a lot of their adventures. Then there was this boy, Kenny, who was really poor, but really nice. Great-Grandpa said he was kinda messy, and a pervert, but also that he was a hero. He never told me why Kenny was a hero, just that he knew that he was. I don't think he even remembered for sure. He said that...Kenny just disappeared. He was sad."
"Was he?"
"Yeah. He was always sad when he talked about Kenny. He was sad about all of them. He...he was the last. Or, he thought he was."
"Oh."
"He sad he was happy though that he could share his stories with me, because...then I'd remember him and his friends too. And I will. I promise, I will."
I turned to look down at him, tears flooding his eyes, his skin flushed as red as a tomato. I patted him on the head with my free hand and smiled at him, my heart beating furiously in my chest. This was the reason I kept coming back to this kid. I knew who he was, I knew Kyle had lived with him. What I hadn't realized until now was just how much he'd inherited from his Great-Grandfather. It felt like being back with a friend after a long absence. We both had changed, but a familiarity remained. Even without knowing each other, that familiarity existed between us. "I will too." I promised, giving him a hopeful smile. At least, I think it was hopeful, I probably looked as red and tear stained and miserable as he did, but oh well. I can make anything look good, or so I used to brag.
"You'll come back?"
"Yeah, I'll be around. I'm not going anywhere."
He gave a small nod, then uncoupled his arms from my elbow. I returned the gesture, then continued to walk away, the tears finally starting to dry off my skin. After I'd gone about another fifty steps I heard his voice call out distantly. "Remember, you said you'd come back! I'll be mad if you don't, Kenny!"
Grinning, I waved over my shoulder dismissively. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. You'll find something else to be mad about instead, Kyle."
"My name isn't Kyle!"
"Well, then next time tell it to me! You've been pretty fucking rude so far, not introducing yourself!"
I heard a faint laugh, then the sound of his boots pounding over the withering autumn grass. I could imagine the sounds of other boots racing to meet up with his, of other voices calling out in greeting, and the entire group of them running off to see what sort of trouble they could get up to this early on a Saturday afternoon. I lifted my face to the sun and let the heat and the breeze wick the last traces of moisture away. Giving the sky a grin, I picked up my step. I still had a lot of places to check in on today, a lot of families to make sure were safe. I whistled a few notes that the birds echoed back at me and reminded myself that no matter how heavy the burden, I was proud to be the one to carry my friends with me, for as long as that might be.