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I pet his ears. Pinch his earlobes.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I tell him.
“There isn’t a way. We just do it. ”
I reach for the brim of his cap, pivot it all the way around on his head, and go up on my tiptoes to kiss him.
Goodbye. I’m kissing West goodbye.
His hand clamps down on the back of my neck. His tongue moves into my mouth and the kiss goes deep, deeper, until we reach the place where there’s no boundary between us. The place where I’ve given him a piece of my heart, my soul, a prayer flag with soft, fraying edges that flaps in the wind, claims him as my own, forever.
I tell him, with this kiss, that I want him to be well. That I want him to thrive. I want him to use his mind and his hands, his curious restless energy, his creativity—to put them in service of something that feeds his soul.
Author: Robin York
I tell him I want him to remember to eat, to make good bread, to pay attention to what he does with his days, what he puts into his body, what feeds him.
I tell him I love him, and my love means I want him to be happy, I want him to be whole.
My love means I have to let him go.
When he moves his lips away, pushes the tip of his nose along my cheek, I’m crying, messy and wet, and he says, “Caroline. God, Caroline. Don’t. ”
“It’s okay,” I say. “It’s just the way it is. ”
His hands. His hands are on my shoulders, my neck, his thumbs smoothing over my mouth, and I’m stroking his forearms, the muscles firm and tight, following the grooves, ruffling his arm hair, wishing we had more time.
I don’t think it’s fair that we don’t have more time.
There isn’t anyone to complain to.
My fingers catch on the leather bracelet at his wrist, the letters of his name. I find the snap and work my thumb beneath it, flicking it off. The cuff falls to the floor, and when I reach to pick it up, our heads knock together, because he bent down to get it for me. Just one more thing he would do for me if he could. One more way he wants to help me with the work of being alive.
“I need to keep it. ”
He smiles and says, “Okay. ”
He puts it on my wrist, and then he kisses my arm, right by the snap, right over my pulse.
There are flags inside me, too, with his prayers on them. I’ll carry him everywhere, for the rest of my days.
“Take care of yourself,” he says. “Don’t let anybody get away with any bullshit. ”
“I won’t. ”
“Bridget and Quinn will look out for you. And try to keep Krish from self-destructing, if you can. ”
Krishna.
Krishna is a mess.
He let West take the fall for him, walked out of jail and straight into a bar. He hasn’t come back to the apartment, and he won’t answer West’s calls.
Only Bridget seems to know what he’s up to. She’s talked to him a few times. She’s worried about him, but none of us knows what to do.
I can’t really concentrate on Krishna right now.
“I’ll do my best. ”
