Brady

I guess that the most pressing image I still carry of you is your hair. Beautifully messy, golden, and incomparable to anything I had ever seen, or have seen since. You most surely don’t realize the beauty you carry everywhere you go to cover your scalp, and most surely you also don’t realize that it’s been twenty years now that I haven’t thought of your hair. One day I had the fortune of caressing it; it might’ve been two or three minutes, but it is a sight that always brings me to tears. Simply remembering this — you — is a way to make pretty much everything turn meaningless.

It might be a fixation… or perhaps it might be normal to think so much about someone’s hair. I wouldn’t know it. It certainly isn’t something people would talk about, being the borderline-fetishist it is. Still, I don’t think it could mean less. I couldn’t possibly inform my feelings for you from anything anyone could think, specially when it is behind the anonymity of the masses.

Our High School days were fun ones. We were always tired, and we often liked lying on the floor of the library’s lobby, which had a thick carpet and some rather private spots. We were all lying there. Anna had a book, and so did Adam, but we didn’t. Our configuration was likely a star, since I remember all our heads at the center, and our bodies simply extending outward. I felt an urge to stretch, but inadvertently extended my arm into your head. As I was twisting and arching, I guess I touched your hair. I had a weird flench, spasm-like; I just wasn’t expecting to touch anything. But suddenly I felt warm all around my body. I felt safe, having my hand within your extended curls. I lied flat again, and with renewed composure simply left my hand right there.

Some minutes passed and it didn’t seem to bother you. At some point you might have fallen sleep, but I didn’t bother to turn and check. It was the white ceiling, the only thing I watched throughout. I began to gently move my hand across your hair, feeling it’s soft and dynamic texture passing by my every finger. I dropped a few tears.

Today I remember all of this, still bringing me to tears. I still think of you, and I don’t know when this must end. I cannot imagine a greater pain… because despite the fact that I try very hard to remember you fondly, and treasure the every moment we were together, I still cannot understand how it was a piece of lead that took you away.

I don’t know the boy who shoot you; he wasn’t on my class. I used to feel hatred towards him, but recently I’ve noticed such feelings fleeting. It used to feel like a torture I couldn’t overcome, but know it just doesn’t feel like anything. They took you away, and I can only now think of our reunion, and whether it will get to a point where I must accelerate it, for maybe in Heaven, Brady, will I feel your hair once more.

Pastillas para no soñar.

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