The Peak

In March we were at Barker.  He had a few drinks by the time JP and I arrived.  He told me it was the start of four months of maudlin goodbyes.  I grasped for a reply.  He did not want a trite response; he shut me down.  He nearly accused Carlos and me of being “emotionally stable,” but then he teased me that I wasn’t always that way.  “How do you know that?” I asked.  “Your own writing!”

In April we bowled for Passover.  We drove back from Wheat Ridge Lanes to a band party uptown.  He asked me his question: the peak and the pit.  What was the peak and what was the pit of my time in Denver?

I said, “The peak was meeting you.”

He seemed uncomfortable with the simple fact, trying to prompt a revision.  No revision necessary. I don’t know if I’m emotionally stable or if my emotions fossilize after replaying events in my head, smoothing out how I feel over time.  But I knew it was true then, just as it is true now.

I remember telling Bob that I thought I made a friend (“Just one?” he smirked in that way that makes me both cherish him and want to murder him), and I remember Hannah giggling with me in shared excitement when I told her the same thing.

I wrote about the night Octobers ago when he said, “You could just drive me around for a while,” and I felt home, New Jersey home, because that’s all we did for years and years.

I never tire of trading lines from Clueless with him.

I think of Denver and I think of him. I think of chorus and I think of him. I think of Janet Jackson and I think of him.  I think of “Futile Devices” and I think of him: “You are the life I needed all along/ I think of you as my brother/Although that sounds dumb.”

Dear Andrew, 

In a mountainous region, you were the peak.

With love,


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