I called to you in need of a miracle, and you looked at me with pity. I tortured myself with scriptures written a couple of thousand years ago which were then chosen by people who wanted control, power, and money. There is some decent philosophy there but also more psychosis than the clerics would like to admit. At the time in which I needed him the most he was not there so I was in search for something I could see. I turned to Buddha, meditation, and yoga. I found what I was looking for and it was within myself. My spiritual insight is limited. What I do understand is pain. I understand it more than I understand myself, and if this world is anything – it is painful. It doesn’t matter if you have faith in God, what matters is that you hold strong a faith in love and trust that God has faith in you. You don’t have to earn love, it’s your birthright. You try your best to be good and live a life of love. Not to fret over what you should or shouldn’t believe.

The front was a glossy black and the back chrome. It held onto my fingerprints when I touched it. Unlike anything I had ever seen before, like slices of technology from some far-off extraterrestrial world against the hand-hewn woodwork of my wooden table – like opposite worlds colliding. About the size of a small thesaurus but thinner; containing the knowledge of a whole world. It held a thousand memories. Not just in the hundreds of pictures that could tell my story, but in my music, in the text messages and apps that I used to connect with people. I truly began to understand myself. Understand what I liked and what I didn’t. I named myself. I had lived all my life in the bland walls of my small town never peeking over the edge into the world beyond. I was trapped in the intellectually incestuous world of people that ran about re-enforcing each other’s bigoted opinions. What had been so shiny and top-of-the-line only a year ago was now hardly worth its weight in bricks.

The package arrived in the evening. It was the yellow of every petal born in spring, a color that loves the sun so much it radiates its warmth even in the dawn. Hidden away in fear that my new-found pocket of sunshine will be taken before it has had its chance to shine. As soon as I found my own space away from home and away from my father’s prying eyes – I reveal what was once hidden. Like gold between my fingers, I tear open the bag and inside of them lay pants of pink and emerald green; different from the black Levi’s I had worn years prior. People loved my style. Perhaps it was more in the way I walked, something about my self-confidence. My biggest mistake was going home. My father always had a way of bringing me back to earth. “Why are your pants so tight? “Pink is a girl color” “Are you trying to look gay!?” He didn’t like my answers and my father’s hands around my neck were no tighter than the pink pants I wore home that day. The well-fitted pink pants that once shined bright were now garish and awkward on my body. That didn’t stop me though, because I am one stubborn sonofabitch. I got that from you.

The thrift store was a treasure trove to my mother and I. Her eyes lit up as she entered, greeting the workers like old friends. Now I walk among the shelves alone – sometimes with friends: small hand-sewn dolls, cigarette boxes, and mirrors encrusted with shells. Then I find an old painting that leans against the wall, dusty and unloved. The thing I love about these finds are how the pictures hold so many sentiments from the past while the frame embellishes it in a way. It holds a certain meaning for the future. I run my finger along the tarnished framing, and it comes away dirty leaving a streak of gold. I hold it up and through the window of grime I see a painting of a dog in a bed of flowers, the colors are subdued. I take it home and the streak of gold I had made with my finger grows until the painting comes to life. With each stroke came the greenery, brilliant hues of daises and in the middle two small dogs with an extravagant ruff of fur around its neck and a long tail that curved like the hook of a coat hanger. It’s time for it to have a place of pride on my wall.

Under the summer sun I feel the warmth of those brilliant rays of light, granting us new vibrant colors. Then there is you, the camp counselor, all dressed in black. I feel jazz begin to play in the way folks walk – in the way their eyes dance upon meeting. Then there is you, the camp counselor, all dressed in black. You had this way of moving that honest people do, with eyes that would look all the way through your core. There was something about you that drew people in. You were reserved, but more like a conscious choice to observe the lay of the land before he got involved. I became very interested in your style – particularly your shoes – the way your laces zig-zagged back and forth -- over and under. The way the canvas frayed, and the aglets wore. The rubber soles were smooth and flat, like bald tires, no traction whatsoever. When I returned home that summer, I got the exact same pair. But those shoes were my own and I have become quite attached to them; I get a new pair every year. They bring a sweet nostalgia, a sort of comfort. The familiarity that only routine can bring.