PK

                              by Rick Moya

                             (February 2001)



     He knelt on the grass, not lifting his eyes from the stone tablet.  The
coincidence never ceased to amaze him.  July 24th, 1995.  How strange that 
on his eighteenth birthday, a new measure of freedom coming to him, she was 
watching all of hers float away from her on her breath.
     No flowers.  No writings, like he'd originally planned.  Just a few 
spoken words, to soothe her eternal soul.  She was a Jewish mother, after 
all, and had fretted over him like he'd really been her son.  Sometimes he'd 
wished he was, but if he actually was, he might not have made the same bond 
with her, might not have loved her so much so soon, and then she'd be gone 
and what could he do about it?
     "Hi."  He cleared his throat.  "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner.  I 
could make any kind of excuses for it, like I forgot where you were or I 
hadn't been published yet or whatever, but the fact is I was afraid to come 
here without something to show you.  Something I'd been working on and 
polishing and fixing up until it was presentable to the public.  And now I 
think I do.  It's me."
     He could picture her smile at that.  She always knew how to make him 
feel good about himself, but it wasn't until recently that he learned he 
could do it without her help.  Had been doing it without her help, actually, 
for the last few years.
     "I'd thought I'd be here thanking you for all the help you gave me with 
pursuing my writing, all the confidence you inspired in me, making me 
believe that I could do it.  But I just realized that you weren't helping me 
with my writing.  You were helping me with myself.  I kept it locked away, 
never wanting anyone to hurt me again, and you helped me to bring it out and 
deal with the hurt."  After all, he reasoned, you can't love if you're not 
willing to bear a little pain.  The two went hand in hand.  She knew that.  
Right to the end, when she was in the most pain, she'd never stopped loving 
him.  All of them.  He knew she loved them still.
     "You taught me what it was like to be loved.  You made me feel like I 
had a place in the world, that I wasn't just some random nobody floating 
around.  Deep down I'd always believed it, but you made me know.  If it 
weren't for you I don't know where I'd be right now.  Certainly not as happy 
as I am."
     He cleared his throat again.  "I'm getting married.  She's wonderful, 
and she's beautiful, and I love her and she loves me.  Maybe more than you, 
but I don't see how that's possible."  He considered.  "Then again, maybe 
with her I can.  She's everything you were, only she's my age.  Not that it 
would have stopped me except for Ira, and Mrs. Griffith.  I don't know how 
you ever taught first grade without getting proposed to thirty times a 
year."  He chuckled.
     "I seriously think, though, if it weren't for you I would have never 
known how wonderful she was.  I would have never known what I wanted in a 
woman.  You remember, from my stories, how I was always going after the 
fashion piece.  They were wrong.  This one ... she's right.  She fits me in 
so many ways and I really feel like you're the one to thank."
     He placed a sealed envelope on the stone.  "It's an invitation.  Of all 
the people I want to come, I want you there the most.  I want you to see how 
I've grown, how I've improved.  I mean, I've still got a long way to go, but 
you're helping me, she's helping me, to get there.  And you can see for 
yourself how perfect she is."
     He stood.  "I miss you.  But I know you're watching, and it helps.  Say 
hi to the others for me.  I lost track of them, we never talk any more, 
which sucks, since they were almost as instrumental in me as you were."
     For a moment, he just stood, reading the carved lettering, comparing it 
to the two letters on the envelope.  Standing there, he almost felt her arms 
around him, and as thin and sick as she'd been, they always made him feel 
protected and warm.
     "I'll come back," he whispered.  He backed to the dirt path, then 
turned to make the long walk for his car.  The warmth stayed with him all 
the way.