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'70
Momma didn't live to see my nineteenth birthday. We were walking to the grocery store in February of 1970, and a truck driver ran a red light and ran over people crossing a sidewalk. Momma and two others died, but another girl and I were so cut up, we needed a blood transfusions. It all felt like one bad dream. Nothing felt real. My momma, my rock since daddy died, the glue that held our house together, was gone. I wasn't even allowed to say good bye to her; her body was sent to her family in Georgia. When I was discharged from the hospital I had two weeks left to live in my house before the state took it, since I couldn't maintain the place on my own.
"It isn't fair," I told Phillip on one of the last days. I was laying on his stomach and surprisingly, tear free (I cried like a baby almost every day in the hospital). I didn't feel anything anymore. Not sad or angry or anything. Just...empty. He played with my hair and without any records playing, it was too quiet.
"You can come stay in my dorm," he offered. We both knew it was hopeless. "Really, though. I've been thinking..." he went quiet. I turned to look at him.
I'd seen Phillip nervous. I'd seen him sad and excited and angry. But I'd never seen that look on his face. It was a mixture of anxiety and embarrassment and sadness. "We could get a place. Go half and half on the rent. I'll take care of you."
It took a second for his words to sink in. And when they did, I knew I couldn't do that to him. I reached up and took his face in my hands. "You know I love you, Phillip, and I appreciate the offer. But you have school and I'm broke. I'll probably be better off in Georgia." One of momma's sisters, Jane, offered to let me stay with her while I got back on my feet. I had never met her, but she was the only family I had left.
It was different this time than when he lived in Ohio for two years. We weren't kids anymore, with optimism for the future. We were adults with responsibilities to act on a half baked idea. So we killed another afternoon that way, soaking up the togetherness while it lasted.
"It isn't fair," I told Phillip on one of the last days. I was laying on his stomach and surprisingly, tear free (I cried like a baby almost every day in the hospital). I didn't feel anything anymore. Not sad or angry or anything. Just...empty. He played with my hair and without any records playing, it was too quiet.
"You can come stay in my dorm," he offered. We both knew it was hopeless. "Really, though. I've been thinking..." he went quiet. I turned to look at him.
I'd seen Phillip nervous. I'd seen him sad and excited and angry. But I'd never seen that look on his face. It was a mixture of anxiety and embarrassment and sadness. "We could get a place. Go half and half on the rent. I'll take care of you."
It took a second for his words to sink in. And when they did, I knew I couldn't do that to him. I reached up and took his face in my hands. "You know I love you, Phillip, and I appreciate the offer. But you have school and I'm broke. I'll probably be better off in Georgia." One of momma's sisters, Jane, offered to let me stay with her while I got back on my feet. I had never met her, but she was the only family I had left.
It was different this time than when he lived in Ohio for two years. We weren't kids anymore, with optimism for the future. We were adults with responsibilities to act on a half baked idea. So we killed another afternoon that way, soaking up the togetherness while it lasted.
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college starts in two weeks omfg no