65. Valentine
August and I spend the rest of the night screaming at the tree, shouting to Des. When we’re too exhausted to stand, we collapse in the grass, chests rising and falling with the effort. And then slowly, quietly, we begin to speak—voices nearly gone—and tell stories. Stories about Des, our childhood, and what it was like after she left.
To say we loved her is as inadequate a description as saying the sun is yellow. We worshipped her, followed her everywhere. And she was the type of older sister who let us, who didn’t make us feel small and stupid but would wrap an arm around our shoulders and say things like “Two goddamn creative geniuses. I swear. If I grow up to be half as interesting or funny as you two, I’ll have achieved all my personality goals.” And the admiration was mutual, because Des was larger than life, a bright spark in a dark night. She made you feel good about yourself with a smile or feel seen with a gesture. People used to joke she was town mayor, but in a way it was true.
As the sun starts to rise and a brilliant red line forms over the trees, we sink into silence once more, lying back in the cool morning grass.
“Thanks,” August says, quietly looking up at the glowing sky.
And I slip my hand into his like I used to when we were little. He squeezes it. Once again we’re August and Tiny, best friends extraordinaire who face the world together. No Wall, no silence. Just us.