Fallen - Stephen Piazza

“I just think it’s funny, is all.” 

“I don’t think anything that hurts you is funny.” And you say this with the gravity of a prayer, that heavy, sacred way you always say everything. I avoid looking into your eyes, because they’re so intense and it always makes me a little dumb to the noise your mouth is shaping. 

But when I read them from the corners of my own they’re wide and guileless, attempting to draw out of me the inscrutable hints I left, whatever I told you time and time again that I’ll tell you later.

“When you find out, you’ll laugh. Because it’s not a big deal. It’s really not.” 

And I walk forward, and you follow, down the hill on which our cars are parked, and I see that, on the bridge, our spot’s been taken by boys a little older than us, stripping their shirts off, and I almost make a joke: “Let’s join them!” but that’s a little dangerous. 

We make off the other way, but the hill is a little steep, and your sneakers slide in the dusty trail. It hasn’t rained in two months. You stop- we have twin scars on our face, from opposite sides of New York State, shoes failing us on the same slippery concrete, and now you’re afraid of going down the stairs. 

So I hold out my arm to you, expecting you to grab the part that’s clothed or just near it, right at my elbow, but instead, I find something slot into my hand, and its soft, and slightly sweaty, and fits so neatly. 

The walk lasts thirty years and a day and twenty seconds and it finishes the moment our feet touch the bottom of the hill and there’s no risk of falling. I can’t tell who lets go first.

It’s not a big deal. It’s really not.

Stephen Piazza is a sophomore English major from Mount Kisco. He loves his family, friends, and the nature of New York State.