The Different Stories

Your friends and family speak of you in hushed tones.

You were such a good boy. Never did anything bad.

You were a model student and example to your peers.

That sort of shit.

I irritate them when I speak of you.

Because I knew you.

We met on Kwazulu Natal copper autumn leaves.

We met behind festival tents and market stalls.

We met behind the YMCA where we started fires and shot off crackers.

We met behind the Musica where we stole CDs and snorted cocaine.

You were such a good boy.

The terrible things we did.

And Sundays we would go to our respective churches,

And take the holy bread and wine…

only to receive forgiveness in each other’s arms later that night.

The subtle prayers that only lovers know.

I could shout it to the world.

The truth of you.

The beauty of you.

Not a small boy with auntie pinched red apple cheeks,

But a young man face flushed as he ran naked into a midnight Midmar Dam.

A young man who stuck his arms out sideways and twirled till he fell.

A young man who sang along to Alanis Morrissette very badly.

A young man stolen from us far too quickly.

They don’t remember you the way I do.

They remember you behaving.

I remember you smiling.

-o0o-