It's Only You

Every day that summer was like the best day of my life. Everything was a new experience, a new feeling, a new rush. I would never forget those days, when the only thing that mattered was love and music and happiness. Being alive was never so easy and it was all thanks to him.

---

We met on the first day of summer. I stood in a crowd of hundreds of sweaty people who all held their lighters straight over their heads. I did the same.

"It's only you, beautiful. I don't want anyone else. If I could choose, it's only you."

These words echoed over the crowd and I sang them back at the top of my lungs, drowning in them. I was completely absorbed. And then I felt a pressure on my lower back. I turned around and that's when I saw him. Standing there with the light from the small flame flickering over his face.

"Sorry," he said, looking me dead in the face "but is that a JamisonParker shirt?" I looked down. So it was.

"Yeah."

"I didn't know their fans were still around."

"I listened to them when I was younger."

"But you had to be like, ten when they were together."

"Yeah. My cousin used to listen to them. I spent a lot of time with him. Parent issues." Why was I telling this to a complete stranger? This was the first time I'd ever seen or spoken to this kid in my life and I was already talking about my messed-up childhood? I had to be losing my mind.

"I'm Ian," he said.

"Summer."

"Summer...my favorite season. That's beautiful."

---

The weeks consisted of festivals and concerts. We discovered the genres of music together. During th day we'd wait outside the venues, waiting for the bands to arrive. We'd cram into the tiny theaters or the sold out ampitheaters and just soak in everything. Music held us together. To both of us it more than words could explain and it was that similiarity that had us completely head-over-heels.

---

We sat at the top of the hill looking out over the lights of the city. Our tiny boombox sat beside us. After hours of consideration, we decided on a song. Our song. And now it flowed out the speakers and wrapped us around each other.

"Maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me. And after all, you're my wonderwall."

We sat on that hill for hours, watching the sun set. Our hands were intertwined; we were one. We talked. Just talked. I found out more about him than he'd ever told anyone. He told me about his father who walked out, and about his Leukemia. How he was scared to die and didn't want his disease to kill him. And I told him more about myself than even I knew. About my dead mother and my alcoholic father. And my addiction to pain medication. We were two messed-up, broken kids in love.

---

We discovered more than music that summer; we discovered ourselves. Each other. Neither of us had known someone we could connect with so much. Neither of us met someone with a similar childhood. Similar fears. Similar dreams. Or a similar love for music.

---

"What should we learn next?" I asked, propping my guitar against the couch. I pulled out my CD case and started flipping through it, reading off artists.

"Jimmy Eat World, Blink 182, Brand New, Eminem, Sugar Ray, Marilyn Manson, Dave Matthews Band, Wheatus..."

"Wheatus!"

"Teenage Dirtbag it is," I said picking up the guitar. We spent the rest of the afternoon working out a guitar and piano composition.

The next day we played it downtown, on a lonely street corner. When it started to rain, we moved to a subway station. We continued until a police officer told us to leave. We collected the money we had gathered in our empty instrument cases. $21. We spent it all at the used CD store down the block. And listened to those CDs for the rest of the summer.

---

As the summer wound down to an end, we pulled ourselves even closer to each other. We spent every waking moment together, with the music on full blast. When I found out we were moving away, it hit us hard. When we knew we only had so much time left, we cherished every single moment of it.

---

"We only have one week left."

"I know. What should we do today then?"

"I don't care. I just want to be with you."

"I love you.

"I love you too."

---

That last week we just spent at out spot at the top of the hill, listening to music. We ended every night with our song, and sang it to ourselves until we met again the next day. The last day was the hardest.

---

"I'll call you every day. I promise. I'll miss you so much."

"I don't want to leave. I can't leave you behind."

"It will be okay. I love you and it will be fine."

"I love you too. More than you'll ever know."

"Trust me, I know."

"Goodbye. I love you."

"This is a 'See-You-Later', not goodbye. So see you later. I love you too."

---

We talked on the phone every day after that. There was always a fear that he would stop calling. That one day he would come to his senses and see that there were plenty of fish in the sea. That one day he would move on and leave me broken-hearted. I waited by the phone. But every day it rang. He never let go and neither did I. We were in love.

But that day eventually came. He didn't call. He didn't call the next day. Or the next. Or the next. It was over. He was gone. He finally realized what I had feared all along.

I broke. I fell into a depression. He was gone and I was more lonely than I had ever been before. As the weeks turned to months, I slowly gained my breath back. It got easier and easier, though it was still hard. I would never forget him. Even if he forgot me.

---

I went back to that town three years later. I walked the town more than I ever had before. I walked past the park where we used to hang out, past our spot on the hill, past the venue where we met, past the old CD store. The memories of him came flooding back stronger than ever. The pain drowned my body and I struggled to wake up in the morning. Sometimes I'd lay there for hours wondering what the point of getting out of bed was. But I'd get up eventually, and every day I'd go for a walk.

On my walks, my thoughts wandered. Mostly though, I invented scenerios of him and her, whoever she was. Whoever stole him from me. These stories hurt, but making them up seemed inevitable for me. They helped me grip reality. He did, after all, stop calling one day.

One day my walk brought me to the cemetery. I usually didn't walk through there, but I had nothing better to do. So I walked through the gate and strolled up and down the isles. I looked at the graves but didn't really see them. Many were brandished with beautiful flowers; many were bare and overgrown. As I walked through, one of them caught my eye. As I bent down and read it, I felt my heart sink into my stomach and explode into a million little pieces.

In Loving Memory

Ian Henry Philips

August 8, 1990 - December 2, 2006

Rest In Peace

Reviews

[Doug Ordunio]

Forgive me, but I always have suggestions. Otherwise, why comment, right? I focus on two places where you might tighten things up if you want.

Every day that summer was like the best day of my life. Everything was a new experience, feeling or rush. Those unforgettable days where the only things that mattered were love, music and happiness (not necessarily in that order). Being alive was ever so easy and it was all thanks to him.

Then there is the paragraph down the page…

We talked on the phone every day, in spite of the fear that he would stop calling. One day he would come to his senses, see that there were plenty of fish in the sea. One day he would move on, leaving me dilapidated, broken-hearted. I waited by the phone, and every day it rang. He never let go; neither did I. We were in love.

hope you accept this in the sprit in which it's given...;-)

[Dalebear]

This story was right to the heart

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