but my god it's so beautiful when the boy smiles

When I was a kid we stayed at this place, the Farm. It was not exactly a farm, but it was called the Farm. I suppose it was a farm because all the food that was served was grown there, but its primary function was not agricultural. It was a religious hippie commune nuthouse.

You can't find that place, as huge as it is, unless you know exactly where you are going. Off the main road is this path, it winds a bit through some trees and bushes, it's impossible to tell how far you are going. Then up a small hill, then over this rope bridge that would give anything in Indiana Jones a run for its money. That thing was fucking insane. I remember when it wasn't there, though, and you had to stand on the piece of wood and pull yourself across from the bottom. That, man, that was something else. So we were very excited when the bridge went in, especially given the tendency of the river to rise unexpectedly. And quickly.

You walk across the bridge and come out just below the top of the river bank. So there is a slight scramble, then over the hill, and there. There, in front of you, the Farm. It was huge. It was enormous. There was a table in one of the eating areas that could seat thirty people, maybe more. The property itself was amazing, not only in its magnitude but in the fact that it even existed, such a beautiful piece of land and no poles, no wires, no concrete or asphalt or gravel, nothing but two giant houses and a cornfield and a massive garden, and a clothesline. Later on we built outhouses, the best time was before those came. That seemed very modern, and strange. Wood burning stoves so dinner always smelled like the forest, houses in a constant state of building, building bigger, building up, building out. There were no doors, only tapestries hung over the entrance to the rooms of the married couples. No doors.

There were two families that were constant the whole time we lived there, and every time we lived there, because we came and went like, well, like hippie nutjobs. There was a Thomas. A father, named Thomas, and his wife that I think was Kim. And another set of parents whose names I do not remember because it took me a long time to discover that they were two different families. It wasn't until my teens that I realized that all those kids were not my cousins. So many kids, oh my goodness, and always three new babies, there was never not a baby. A boy my age named Jesse, and his older brother Kevin, their ten or twelve brothers and sisters. It is interesting to realize now that Jesse was the first boy that I was ever in love with. I loved Jesse. I loved that boy. He would play a harmonica, badly, and I would pretend not to listen, even though we were sitting right next to each other on the same log, a hundred yards from the house. Jesse and I would swim in the river when we were supposed to be washing our hair. Jesse had Legos, oh my God he had a set of Legos hidden in the wall and they were not carved out of wood. And batteries. Stacks and stacks of batteries and nothing to put them in, the tragedy. Too many batteries and not enough outlet. Jesse would have conversations with the dogs, and they would listen raptly, waiting for the punchline or the happily ever after which was always happy but never ever after. Jesse. Brown hair and blue eyes and perfect in every way.

Once when we went back Jesse was gone. Kevin was still there, but Jesse was gone. Because of the way we lived, I assumed that I had mistakenly lumped Jesse in with Thomas and Kim's children when he obviously belonged to someone else, because Thomas and Kim were there but he was not. That was too bad. I missed him, but not for long, because after a while you condition yourself to let things go. Let that home go. Let that box of books go. Let that boy go, because you never know who is going to be there when you come back. And he wasn't. Go, Jesse, play your harmonica for someone else and I will take care of the dogs.

When I was fourteen I learned that Jesse had died of juvenile arthritis when we were eleven, about a month after the last time I saw him. That he had been dying, effectively, since the moment I met him. That all that time, all those days and months and seasons and swims, that Jesse had a clock winding down inside of him and I did not know, we did not know, no one told and no one counseled and no one prepared. Maybe the dogs knew, maybe that is why they listened to him. Maybe they thought he had a head start on all the answers. Who knows. I know that the knowledge, maybe not as young as we were, but the knowledge might have made things different. Bittersweet instead of sweet. Tragic instead of nostalgic. Would it have been different, had we known? I missed Jesse, but was conditioned to let him go, but secretly wished I could see him again. I did not know that I never would.

As an adult I am keenly aware that I do not know that I will ever see anyone again. I do not know when I close the door that she will be on the other side of it one day. I do not know when I log off that he will ever be ONLINE NOW!! again. I do not know that I will ever have the opportunity to be exasperated with his total arrogance again. Every work day I meet three or four people, and get to know them very well, who did not show up and did not log on and did not brag. And their friends and family know that they will never see them again. And they deal with it, but it doesn't really matter, because they are gone.

And every day I watch someone I know, people I know, friends or not friends or strangers or passersby but mostly myself, take everything around them for granted. I assume that they will always be there, even though I should know more than anyone that that is not true at all, at all at all. What would they give, these other people, what would they give for the opportunity to fight with their sister once more? What would he give to hear her throwing his shit about in the middle of the night, one more time? Is there anything that he would not give to spend five more minutes listening to that same girl bitch about that same thing for the nine hundred thousandth time, if that meant that he could have five more minutes with her? Why not give it now? Why not make that decision, immediately, to let it go if it does not matter? Because really, really it does not matter.

Jesse kept me up all night, more than once, playing that fucking harmonica. I really wished he would stop, sometimes.