The Lessons We Learn(ed) Too Late
And you were terrified that I would write down every detail of your coked up nights turning up The Beatles on your record player as you downed your third whiskey straight. You grew up an unbreakable G.I. Joe that would find a way to even reattach his head when it was all of a sudden popped off, learning that porcelain dolls would crack if they went through 1/50th of what you endured. Trying to protect my innocence by placing me in a bulletproof glass box on display for all of your platoon to ‘ooo’ and ‘ahh’ at. Until you saw your own nearly OD’d bloody reflection in my eyes that you never could tell were green or blue, and dropped me on the stained wood planks of your studio. Ornate hand-carved wooden shelves in a high-end vintage boutique became my new home, my ocean gaze looking for your familiar half-smile in the bougie semi-famous models and DJs. Your waspy thin voice made its way through your smoke stained teeth to tell me someone better than you, more deserving, would buy me. And on one in particularly snowy February night, he did. His delicate ivory porcelain fingers tediously removed the bulletproof glass and we moved to a very comfortable gold-painted shelf that looked over a foreign skyline, his hand placed delicately on top of mine.
Decades later I ended up on the same splintering wooden crate in a vintage shop as you, 3000 miles away on the corner of Bedford and 3rd. Your right arm was scratched up to the point you could no longer move it, your chestnut eyes almost entirely gone. But enough flecks were left to see the cracks in various places of my porcelain and enough for me to notice your plastic eyelids fall.
I would have cracked for you. I was going to crack anyways. Not even the most fine of China and Porcelain can avoid the unavoidable scrapes of a metal spoon or drop onto the white tile floor. And not even the most solid plastic can keep a G.I. Joe from losing a limb or two. Love is love and that is all I ever needed from you.