I can’t remember everything. I never can. I can remember who is who though.

On any given day I can remember who we are.

The day my Mom took that candid shot my Sparrow may have stubbed her toe on a sanded piece of rock. My Dad wasn’t there. I think he said he wasn’t feeling up to traveling while watching the game. It was six months to the day that I found someone who could overlook my stupidity and see each piece of me. Even there standing in the rock salt, the clinging barnacles, and the scattered globs of gull crap. All I could see was her. She swore to God she wasn’t trying to be cheesy when she fell into my arms and that this would be the last time she would trip over herself. It wasn’t but she still laughed a blushing laugh all the while thinking that no one was watching us. My Mom was, but again we were none the wiser. After she got her balance back we drifted past the long stretch of rock until we came to a plateau whose corners were kissed by the scrapped off steel of discarded Sprite cans. I think one of the scraps scratched me but I think she was still laughing from her trip. So I took her in my arms and cupped her face. I asked her to look at me. She stopped laughing after that. After that my Sparrow smiled at me.

Sometimes language between us was plain and right to the point and running on. Or she would put it, straight as horses’ guts. There was this one-day where we were dragged to dinner when all I wanted to do was write pretentious poetry both for the love of it and to impress my Dove. I like every thinking man who’s not a sexist pig that wants to fuck everything he can’t kill, wanted to have a lovely chat with my Father. It was on our anniversary where we wanted her to meet the parents. I think my thoughts were scattered. So much so that my dialect dialed back to a level where a third grader could laugh at my ass for mixing up which there is the right one to use as I jotted down a nother note in my iPhone’s itinerary. What if they hate her? What if Mom acts breaks out a can of diet racism and says something about what a beautiful Vietnamese girl she is and how she usually doesn’t see a lot of people like her? Would she even see how wrong that was? Would my Dove understand that my Mom never meant anything by that? Or would she not even care? Turns out she didn’t because my Mom never said anything like that. No she just mentioned how one of the judges on Master Chef must act the way he acts because he was gay. He wasn’t gay.

It was at dinner and I was trying to talk to Dad about poetry and how the lines of a poem reflect the structure of the theme. I was also telling him my business cards were better than his because I used better stock. Then Mom said her stupid little comment and I turned to her to voice my resentment. Her face twisted in confusion saw mine twist in confusion and anger. Eyes furrowed I wanted to fire back more random disconnected thoughts and finally let all those colorful swears fly. Yes it was my on mother but I didn’t care. I wanted to fire back more but then my Dove took me by the hand. She caressed it with hands that I think were covered in chip grease. She pulled me back when I tried to pull away and suddenly the greasy grip gave way to a whisper audible only in the bustling restaurant. She told me that’s it was okay. That I shouldn’t swear at my Mom. That I was flapping around too much, and that I should come and rest with her. We left the table to get some air after that.

Another day when my hand could feasibly write a poem without using profanity just to shock the crowd, my Sparrow told me that it was the second to last day before we had to go back to Atlanta. My parents clad this day in the most hideous shade of salmon pink decided that my Sparrow was wonderful and that they had wanted her to stay. She couldn’t though. Neither of us could stay despite my forgiven Mother’s pleas. My Sparrow wanted to stay at my parent’s house that day so she could flitter outside with the dog and I could finally work things out with my Mom. I lied to my Sparrow without even blinking. I told her that I would forgive Mom for the dinner of our third night together. I never talked to Mom. I didn’t want to. All I wanted to do was watch my Sparrow from the door as she played with my dog Molly. Sketchpad in hand her fingers flittered about the page drawing every little tuft of Molly’s fur pressed against the balding patches of grass. She put down the sketch pad occasionally and dive bombed that old dog in a flood of imitated meows and mews; burying her face into Molly’s black velvet ears. I think Molly rolled her eyes in my direction as if she was asking if the nice girl was staying after the weekend.

We left for Atlanta when we were confused. Neither of us knew who we were at that point but we were rested and we knew that my parents liked us. I wish I could say it was painless but that would be bullshit. I had fought with Mom and lied to my girlfriend. I’m not proud of either of those things, but what I have now is that photograph stored permanently on my phone. A candid photo so saturated in loving glances and delicate touches that romantics would call it overdone. All I see is us constantly shifting between one furiously flittering bird and one peaceful plume of virgin feathers eagerly awaiting the other to sit the hell down. We’re both standing up though. We’re stuck standing as two allegorical birds.

No platitudes spoken will due though. I look back at that photo, that nest for two birds and I feel nothing but dysphoria. No one will ever look at that photo of me caressing her face and see anything but a cliché.

© 2014 Jared "I.J" Steinberg. All Rights Reserved.

#nonfiction