personal blog: simon
might as well call this ‘Jacob Log 1″. a dedication
the box of souvenirs and odd Polaroid Insta photos hidden beneath stacked unused winter sweaters. do I keep these sweaters just to hide this box?
I never realized the substantial weight of the box. how many secrets have I kept?
my adolescent days at the group home were spend somber and remote. I didn’t belong. it wasn’t home. many have come and gone. Jacob left after four years and Jacob was home. he sat arranging the notes on his guitar the day I heard of my father’s appeal, as I sat drawing the outline of his fingers. Jacob was my confidant, checking off my ‘like-to-have’ list. spared no cost, no feelings. little did he care to get anything expensive or nice for himself. indulging others with gifts. not that people would like him, rather that people would simply leave him be. an exchange for silence… and Jacob strung the strings singing, no necessarily in his most harmonious way, only so I would smile.
I pull the lid off the box filled with treasures, scavenging through to find the photo of Jacob’s not-so-happy-not-so-sad smile. his intentional avoidance of the camera, not the flash or glare, but the lens. hiding from the capture of his essence. looking away in contradiction and predicament.
contradiction and predicament. if I had a dime for every time I would describe Jacob as such. but more on that later.
another photo unearthed from under a scarp of paper. fainted figures. Lime, Sam, and Mason. the other boys from the ‘house’. then an attempt at some artistic picture of torn tissues raked on the black loose bricks, someone gave as a donation to the ‘house’, eventually patterned into a brick patio.
the plush rug and its hair weave between my crossed legs, as I spread the articles from the box across the floor.
my first attempt at drawing Jacob’s hand giving me the middle finger. a drawing of a crane, another of an arched light fixture, a small lemon-coloured automotive toy. few doodles of what could have been a logo. more photos. a picture of Jacob’s feet, his guitar. my journal of lost proses and some ridiculous quotes that I found sentimental at that time. a snippet of a journal entry. my favourite quote. a candle wick and a bookmark. the disjointed parts of Jacob’s features, like a jigsaw puzzle, all snapped individually and at close range. his gaze into the oblivion only remain in the focused and hazed snapshots. his piercing cobalt blue eyes, like icy water, deep, uncharted.
I shuffle through the contents and most of the keepsakes are of Jacob. if not an image, then words, or ticket stubs, or his guitar picks.
“I can’t argue with you.” my defeated words spilled in a jest to Jacob as we were about to part, the last time I saw him.
but he simply smiled, giving me life, a reason to live. a win. “let it not be another five years.” the uttered words weaved genuinely, yet a somber attack on our friendship and how much time has past, leaving me to stand minuscule.
“yeah.” my shallow exhale and I didn’t want it to end. I didn’t want him to go. I needed more time.
but then Jacob gave me enough to hold onto, with of an equal urge draping his arms around me. “I mean it.” he whispered. his skin felt warm unlike mine, foreign and borrowed.
accused of being a dreamer, I would fade into and drown in my subconscious on many occasions, creating riveting scenarios out of my will… covets… memories. detailing every minuscule pattern of cells, the tiny cracks, the shape of Jacob’s pout. or how his hands danced in space. how his voice sounded each time he said ‘good-bye’.
no. I’m not at all in love with Jacob.
read more: ← saturday 15:43 ♦ saturday 17:59 →
© simon whittle — second act