︎

__________________________________
I (Still) Know a Boy
By Stephanie Kemp








But now he is also a convicted murderer.

Yesterday he was sentenced to life in prison with a minimum of 28 years.

My heart is broken.
My head doesn’t get it yet.
Can you be someone - anyone - else if you have been convicted of murder?

Can I help keep the real boy alive in there?

Wherever that is?

Physically?
Mentally?
Emotionally?

Can anyone?

The boy is a family friend. He is technically not a boy. He is in his early 20s. I have known him since he was 10.  

I last saw him on his last birthday before the man died.
I bought him birthday candles and hung hammocks for his family to swing in.

I don’t know why I didn’t make him a cake but I’m sure I would remember if I had.
I would’ve wanted to know what kind of cake was his favorite.
I hope I at least made him cookies or banana bread to go with his candles.

I wanted them to feel welcome. It had been a hard few years.

I don’t know how I’m going to talk to his Dad. His sister.

I want to let go of feeling like I need to find the right words but hold onto the idea that they exist.

I want to let go of the what ifs I keep stumbling over. The magical thinking of if only he could go back in time. Not go to the man’s house.

I want to let go of thinking about what he must be thinking. Or feeling. Or doing.

Not doing.

For 28 years minimum.

______________

It has been 3 years since the boy’s mom died.

Did they tell the judge that? That the boy lost his mom?

That the boy had no history of violence?

That he was the most adorable boy in the history of the world?

Sweet.
Shy.
Funny.

A boy who just wanted to go to Magic Mountain on his trip to California (my husband took him) and not have his sister mess up the song she sang at their grandpa’s 80th birthday (she didn’t) in front of all those people?

Did the judge know these things?

I want to let go of the fear that I won’t remember the boy I have known since he was 10.

The fear that he must face knowing that he will be in jail until he’s at least 50.

My daughters wanted to know if we would still have bagels with the boy when he gets out of prison.

I will be at least 80.

Their heads don’t get it yet either.

I wanted to let go of their question. I didn’t know how to answer. I wanted to say yes but didn’t know if that was the right answer while they were grappling with the boy's impossible change in identity.

______________

I want to cry my fucking eyes out.
I want to write him a letter.
I want to hold on to the good parts of him, because I know he is still in there.

Does he know it? Will he be able to hold onto that person?

I want to figure out a new language with his Dad. And sister.

How do we have a meal or hug each other knowing where the boy is?

We had just started to figure out a language we could share after the boy’s mom died.

His Beautiful Mom.

I can try to explain all of this to my girls as I struggle with it, in real time.

I have to be careful.
I am protective of the boy.  
This is confusing to them and confounding to me.

I saw his picture in the news.

I don’t want that image to replace the boy of my memory.

This is what happens to me (only me?) always.  

The danger of photos. Too often they take away more than they give.

My sister asked the boy’s full name. I didn’t want to tell her.  

If my sister sees the mugshot there will be no trace of the boy I know.
 
A friend’s son.
 
A late friend’s son. A brother. A grandson. An uncle. 

A friend.

A boy who showed me pictures of his girlfriend and explained that she’s even more beautiful when she doesn’t wear makeup.

A boy who played hide and seek and puppets with my girls after he polished off the rest of his sister’s bagel (only after confirming she was done).

A boy who was learning how to build things.
______________

I want to protect that part of him.  

I know he is still in there.

I know he is sorry.  
Terrified.
Heartbroken.

He’s still the kid that I got the candles for on his last birthday before he met the man who died.

Right?

I recognize this as magical thinking because it hasn’t let that man in yet.
______________

I want to tell the boy’s dad that I love him.

I want to tell the boy’s sister that my girls still want to be her when they grow up.

I want to tell the boy that my girls can’t wait to go to Magic Mountain with him now that they are tall enough.

I want to find the birthday recording of the beautiful song from their grandpa’s party.

I will listen to it. And guard it.

I will write the boy a letter.

I have to do this before the magical thinking lets the other man in.

The man who died.
______________

What I’m trying to say is that my heart is broken and I don’t know how to process this impossible thing.

That I want the  boy to be ok and know that someday we will have a bagel and a hug.

Or just that he will somehow be ok.

The youngest I will be is 80.
The boy will be 50.

It is easier to think of the boy at 50 than it is to think of him now.
______________

The magical thinking has started to fade.
 
This might (have to) be the letter.