The Fence

Why did Mrs. Finch, our first grade teacher assemble us at her home? To mobilize young outcastes? Was I a loser like you? I shudder now recalling years I would cry for no solid reason. Now, I know enough to at least rationalize. Thinking back, we formed and fried triangle shaped burgers, threw discoordinated Frisbees, teaching our hands to obey our brains. Those struggles connecting us, linked us together for twenty years, our friendship a fence which I opened to show you what, life? You, locked for years behind your own Beverly Hills Berlin wall, a cell lined with velvet Elvises, rows of pristine records, virginity and masturbating into a terrycloth towel on your water bed. I recall your Nicaraguan maid begging you: just grab life and take it Matt. But you were weak. Like when you strained for that one pull up with all of us coaxing your chin upward. We stared into each other's eyes for that second before you surrendered. Perhaps nothing I gave you was useful either. I am sorry that we are no longer friends, but mostly that you may never open that fence for anyone else.