Seventeen years means you listen to a lot of Bon Iver, mainly because
he isn’t Ray LaMontagne.
Bon, the non-Ray. Bon, the one you did not share together. Bon, the one
you did not discover on the term ending paper she submitted for credit to the
professor she was fucking.
Seventeen years means he laughs in your face when you ask for a pound
of the fresh coffee he roasts in the back yard—all hippie-granola-esque—on the
commercial roaster he purchased with your student loan money. The same coffee
he gives to garner accolades from the band teacher.
Seventeen years means he does not shed a single tear in your presence
as things fall apart and the center is blown out.
Seventeen years means he keeps the Digital SLR—the one he gave you for
Christmas—the same one that everyone oohs and ahhs over—the one he carries so
often people think it part of his identity. The same camera that has
transformed itself into yet another torture tool, when the old pain seeps in—just
like the promised bed that never showed up. You thought you were over the pain of
the fake gifts. But the hero worship of his photos cuts along the scar tissue.
Seventeen years means as you crumple into a heap and grovel for money
when you can’t pay rent, he oh-so-graciously hands you two onions for dinner and sends you away
from the home you must now knock to enter.
