You always told me to let loose. Live a little. You said that life was too short to be holed up in a dark room day and night.
You would sit there in that old car of your dad’s, a cornflower blue convertible, your blond hair whipping into the wind, and scream as you raced down the highway. Sometimes you lost your sunglasses to the road, crumbling under a tire, but you didn’t care.
Life was too short to be worrying about finances, you said.
Sometimes, though, on quieter nights, you would pull out that old record player you had, the fancy one with wooden sides that was secretly covered with Disney stickers on the underneath.
You would play the record I made you, way back, the songs I burned onto the vinyl like a proclamation of love.
And then you would sit there on your bed, and hum. You never sang, said you had a terrible voice. No one every believed that though, not after you could be heard, whispering to yourself on the balcony, singing Darin like your life depended on it.
I would always be in the doorway. You never saw me, though. I’m glad.
Your favorite tracks on that record have now become worn and old, grooves running in deep.
If you had been around longer, you probably could have broken the thing.
I would have made you a new one, though. I wouldn’t have minded.
But you didn’t stay, you disappeared like everyone always thought you would.
And now it’s too late to come back.
Anna Wenzel is an eighth grade student at Boulder Country Day and a member of Boulder Writing Studio.