Fling, Flang, Flung
by Corinne Caraway
In the Summer of 2011 I was way too young
to be the beloved of a jazz trombonist,
but in my defense you were way too young
to call yourself a jazz trombonist.
And yet, there we were.
Fumbling for each other’s hands under
Fellowship Hall tables on Wednesday night
after just barely meeting on Sunday morning,
desperately trying to fit forever into a week.
And we almost did, didn’t we?
Sealing it up with a kiss (or two)
in the church courtyard, only to get caught
laying in that singular patch of grass as you sang
“Somewhere Over the Rainbow” softly to the sky
instead of trying to take anything from me.
I would be lying if I said I wasn’t looking for you,
well not you, but Someone with your general
stature, disposition, and good humor.
Someone to turn me into the kind of girl
who returned home with news of Someone
from Somewhere that wasn’t Here.
Someone I could love for the remainder of June,
and possibly July. Just like all those Sarah Dessen
books on my nightstand.
And gosh. We almost made it through July.
Despite the distance from the forest to the coast,
We delighted each other with a grand exchange
of handwritten letters and mix CDs between
minute monitored phone calls that kept us
both awake past curfew. My lack of a driver’s
license had never seemed so insignificant.
Distance had never felt so romantic, so safe.
I didn’t know it yet, but I was on the verge
of losing what was left of my innocence
when the news of you silenced a declaration
I was not ready for, and you became the
unknowing obstacle of my growing up too quickly
at the hands of Someone Else Closer to Home.
You know, the kind of Someone who turns distance
into an opportunity, always looking for a way
around being “just friends.”
The kind of Someone who presses on what’s fraying
between you and Not Them just enough to make
you give up on that thing they knew you still wanted.
The kind of Someone who lies in wait.
There are things no one tells you about patience.
How it’s a virtue until it’s not. How holding out
hope in the sun makes it rot until it's
no longer the kind of fruit you want.
The truth is, when August began her breach,
I wasn’t tired of you at all, but Someone Else was,
and I had yet to learn how to deny Anyone
who wanted anything from me.
So you were reduced back to Someone
from Somewhere that wasn’t Here.
A stack of letters in my sock drawer,
a story from my nightstand come to life,
an old song I’d lay on the floor listening to,
trying to remember what it was like,
What was it like?
The last taste of fifteen in Summertime.