Dylan
by Andrew Gibeley
You died the summer before only I started fifth grade,
when the seatbelt suffocated your compact frame, when
the car impacted the pickup truck--blunt force trauma--
with your babysitter at the wheel, still alive.
You really died in March, when suburban streets are
their slickest, maybe another wintry mix during those
school days when your life was invisible to me, just
five days before your tenth birthday.
But I learned about it in June, from my counselor who
could have been yours too, who knew, who had watched
you be buried and reported it to the rest of us around
camp, so that no one had to wonder.
I found your obituary online and memorized its details--
your holy communion, snowboarding, your single mom--
but all I saw was your spiked blond hair and baggy shorts,
that little smirk you made in group photos.
Sometimes now I wonder how well I truly knew you, how
many hours together we even spent, how many more
summers we would have been friends before you outgrew
me, or if my memories of you warrant a poem.
But then, why did I dream of you the night before every
first day? Why did I will you back to kickball and our
morning swim lessons and silly dance routines and that
red bench where we sang our own song?
when the seatbelt suffocated your compact frame, when
the car impacted the pickup truck--blunt force trauma--
with your babysitter at the wheel, still alive.
You really died in March, when suburban streets are
their slickest, maybe another wintry mix during those
school days when your life was invisible to me, just
five days before your tenth birthday.
But I learned about it in June, from my counselor who
could have been yours too, who knew, who had watched
you be buried and reported it to the rest of us around
camp, so that no one had to wonder.
I found your obituary online and memorized its details--
your holy communion, snowboarding, your single mom--
but all I saw was your spiked blond hair and baggy shorts,
that little smirk you made in group photos.
Sometimes now I wonder how well I truly knew you, how
many hours together we even spent, how many more
summers we would have been friends before you outgrew
me, or if my memories of you warrant a poem.
But then, why did I dream of you the night before every
first day? Why did I will you back to kickball and our
morning swim lessons and silly dance routines and that
red bench where we sang our own song?
Andrew Gibeley is a writer in Brooklyn, New York. Born and raised in Connecticut, he graduated from Hamilton College with honors in creative writing and completed the NYU Summer Publishing Institute. He is currently a publicist at Abrams Books.