Russet Brown & Baby Blue

Russet brown.
I knew him to have gingery red hair. But that's the color of Michael's hair, at least that's the color of the very top of the wig that was styled up to peak out just above the casket from where I was, like styling a hairpiece was going to make us forget that they had only days before sawed through the top of his skull to inspect and remove the brain, his brain- Michael. What made Michael, Michael. All of this of course after his parents had to make the arrangements and call friends and counselors and old teachers and old flames, after whoever had found him had to make that phone call to 911 after, of course, Michael decided that he wasn't going to spend another Valentine's alone.
They just, removed him, this boy that had reached out & touched so many people, only to leave us with the illusion of a boy that would be accentuated by attempts of talking about how great he was, little choked laughs ricocheting off the walls in between funny Michael moments, like it gave us back the guy that took us in and shook us with laughter on midnight blunt walks long after our parents were comfortable with instead of the negative space occupying the box up front. I was in line to view the body, but the closer I got to the coffin, the more it felt like Michael was farther, and farther, & farther away. Like with every step towards him I took he was taking a step away. Like he was actually leaving. Like he was deader with every step. I didn't want him to be completely gone. Wasn't ready, don't think you can be with something like that. Didn't want to see him all cold and empty and bloated and blue. Not someone I laughed with. I know what that looks like. How that it's their body in that box but it doesn't even feel like anybody is there.

Not even a stranger.

You never notice the body heat we all give off until you're standing at the front of a pulpit leaning over something that actually feels like it's reaching for your heat, colder somehow than the air around you and all the holy props there for some sick joke about ambiance. Adverse heat. An aggressive cold that lays wrapped around your friend to tell you "We'll be close like this one day." You'll have ashy greener tones depending on the amount of yellow skin tones (if any), or just pale blueing grey. It's always cold, no matter what.
Blue, he'd be blueish. He was so pasty and white when he was alive haha. Not a
bad thing, but that's the way I want to remember him. Not like, that. So, last minute, I cut down to the 3rd aisle from the front and sit down beside Ana, his old girlfriend. They were really in love. It was something. Even after they split and
she hurt him a little and moved to Washington. I couldn't remember her from Churchill when she remembered me, or ever but if I ever saw her again to this day I'd stick to it. Before it starts, she says through laughs turned to sniffles,

"That's my Michael up there."

Baby blue, cold like shades of xanax (which Michael loved the menthol sensation of snorting). Those fucking periwinkle shaped, hydrangea-clustered bunches of artificial flowers sitting atop the little tables on the wall with the curtains, perfectly symmetrical to the small glass windows in the moderately sized Lutheran church. We used to go there for NA meetings, how Michael and I met. I met his brother, Geoffrey or "Frank" (I called him "Geo" and often
resisted the urge to call him "slightly smaller scale Frank, due to also having a short, pissy (but cool) Australian counselor named Frank) in 8th period Spanish one at Churchill. Two of the numbered few good people that came from that school. One time Michael got drunk and had Geo take a picture of him pissing on a tree, then accidentally sent it to Frank the counselor instead of Frank his brother. And oh my god, when we remet at the meetings I couldn't remember Frank at first either, to the point I eventually gave up and pretended I remembered him so as not to offend him when like 3 months later, I finally remember in the middle of chainsmoking on the back deck before another meeting. He was a little offended and just speechless at my sudden, awkward remembrance. Man, they really took me under their wing. The dude that I was going with to the meetings after his convincing and..well, I was fucking bored.
Well, he went to rehab and I'm so awkward and socially terrified and I didn't really know anyone, they took me under their wing while he was gone and we always had a blast. They shared secrets with me. Oh man, and Michael's hugs..even though I didn't receive them right back then because they kindof scared me, I loved his hugs. Such a gentle giant. His arms were always arms stretched wide, pulling you in to really hold you for a moment..so honest and warm. Like him.

Clammy skin, (naughty naughty, Mikey, at an NA meeting? Haha the three of us would trade ambien/lunesta/vyvanse and weed at those things sometimes. As an afterthought, he could have just been clammy from the night air or withdrawals even, the night I take the memory of my favorite hug by him) so full of life. Ah, those were the days of freezing our asses off walking down their neighborhood to find an alley to smoke in, explaining using large trees as windbreakers while Geo stared incredulously amused and Michael looked kindof embarrassed the way he looked away, maybe it was because I was being a dork about the cold and the "windbreakers". Ha, makes me crack up at how impressive I thought it was. I want to remember him laughing, even though he didn't do as much of that as he did making sure others were laughing. He was so warm and honest, straight up when he was hurt or not in the mood and often wonderfully snarky, but it was an art: well, I don't need to tell you, you were often Michelangelo.. Those were the days of laughing stale smoke and flashing each other like drunk college boys.

Now I'm glaring at those flowers, that fucking shade of blue.

Russet brown and baby this-is-the-end blue.

04/07/18 as written in my Notepad app & sent to Kitty's blog.