I dreamt that there were fireworks, green and red, atop the hill I walked day to day to school; the evening sky was navy black. I dreamt I was in the echoing passivity of my high school pool building and my dad was scared, scared outside with the silver cars that gave themselves to the blue of night—the fireworks had fallen and two rockets had launched, but they were missiles and we, and they, and the countless couples laying atop my familiar hill on the gravel pavement were waiting to be hit. Nuclear, the rest of my family at home and I knew to call but knew also to lay my hands on my trembling father and keep myself still. This was my “sorry”. This was my love.
Awake, I thought about committing murder and nodding at trial. Sitting in a different kind of blue, like ice chips in a metal cup, waiting for the needle they would slip me, me to slip away. I thought about doing it together, with him, and holding his hand as we slipped. I thought about it and thought maybe that is how you know you love someone. I am in love, I think.