Our birthday approaches (for M.V.)

by April on March 22, 2011

I share a birthday with the boy who sat behind me in eleventh grade English. I found out three days after he died.

I thought, I hate you radio announcer man.

For not using the name he went by. For saying where he went to college, but not that he wrote an essay about becoming a ditch digger and that the teacher made him rewrite it and choose another career.

For telling his service branch and rank, but not that he performed the Saturday Night Fever dance as part of our 70s presentation. He already owned the suit.

For making me lose my shit while sitting in 7 a.m. traffic. For reading the next name on your list before I can catch my breath.

I’ve forgotten whole people, you know. A barista with an expectant look says we went to high school together, and we both pretend I remember. A friend gives me updates about so-and-so who did such-and-such, but I recall neither so nor such.

I remember that he wrote a poem called NO-DOZ Monkey, though. Ooooo-eeeee, oooo-eeee. That line was in there somewhere.

 

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