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GRAFFITI

Long before I listened to advice,
or cared about consequences,
or felt pain,
I spent my afternoons and evenings on Drake Mountain
climbing toward today.

Do you remember our first time,
how quiet the world sounded on our private trail,
how bright the stars looked, not yet rivaled by city lights?
The hike was long and buggy
but we made it anyway,
then sat in stillness at the Drake Mountain summit

admiring the sunset from our lonely rock
far above the busy town sprawling toward us.
We were thirteen,
dazzled in each other's laughter all summer.

Then when trees cried leaves
we went to the rock again.
The bugs were gone by then, and
browning leaves crackled under our boots.
As we rested on the summit rock,
you found a small canister of spray paint
hidden in my backpack.

"What this for?" you asked.

Far below all the tiny lamps of Westfield
waved in the October dusk.
I hated those fancy houses,
knew someday they'd engulf our mountain sanctuary.
I wanted you to hate them, too,
to deface our rock with fluorescent rantings
condemning our hometown and all the people there who hurt and punished me.

But there was no hate
no angry tirades about grown-ups or preppy kids
as you shook the orange canister
and sprayed away.
Instead, as the mist settled, I saw my name and yours,
and a bubbly heart surrounding them.
We watched the mist settle, immortalizing a moment in time.
Then we laughed and gossiped and reminisced,
postponing a future
we knew
would disconnect us.

Sometimes I hear those conversations in my head,
though not nearly as often as I see your taillights
trailing from my sight for the last time
years later.

They say you're different now,
ugly and worn down from the strain of climbing onward.
Lost somewhere inside is the beautiful teenager who taught me how to be alive.

Have you lost yourself in this pseudo-world?
Do blinding strobe lights soothe you tonight
as our New England sunsets once did?
Is the unworthy stranger's howl all that exhilarates you now?
Or would you still cherish the Drake Mountain breeze,
the silence and the sunsets and the unhinged starlight?

When I visit Westfield summers and holidays
I make the climb alone,
my sweat reeking of your presence,
calf muscles aching for our innocence.
But I can't find the Drake magic these days.
Loud lawn mowers snore
from gated communities that rich people carved into the side of the mountain.
Sunsets are less spectacular against the factory haze.
Bright new Chevy dealerships
outshine the muted stars.

But the bright orange heart still rides our rock.
Seven years later,
the names of two strangers still glow
as vividly as they did that first Sunday.

I wish I'd known then.
Paint lasts forever;
nothing else does.

Learn more about this author, M. Frederick Voorhees.
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