Twelve

We pulled into the empty church parking lot a few minutes later. We walked around to the front of the building and pulled the large chapel doors open. I peered inside at the empty pink chapel.  

“Come on,” Gideon said, as he walked past me. “Sit.” He sat in one of the pews and patted the spot next to him.  

I walked over and sat down. “Alright, we almost have everything done.” He dragged his finger down the paper Ms. Williams had handed us. 

“Literature devices, meaning, audience impact...,” he listed, hesitating. “Last thing we need to talk about is how we relate to the poem.”  

How we relate? “I don’t know...,” I said. “The poem’s about the suicide of a young woman, most likely Rossana Sironi, but I've never known anyone who took their own life.” 

Gideon nodded. “Me either. The only incident I can think of is my mom...” 

I hesitated. “How did she die?” 

There was silence. “...My dad.” 

“What about him?” 

Gideon exhaled. “My dad beat my mom.” He hesitated. “One day when I came home from school, I saw him standing over her. And... she never woke up.” 

Oh my god. I couldn’t begin to understand how horrible it must be for Gideon to live with the person who killed his mom, even if it was his dad.  

“I’m so sorry.” I hesitated. “How do you live with him knowing he... did that?” 

Gideon shook his head. “I have to. I have no money to move out.” 

“I’m so sorry, Gideon,” I said. “I’d invite you to stay at my house, but my parents would never allow it.” 

“No, it’s fine,” he started. “Don’t worry about it.” 

I cleared my throat. “So... Do you want to say that? About your mom? Or-…,” 

Gideon cut me off. “I’ll just say... a member of my family who was important to me passed away, and I think the same thing as Quasimodo. That she shouldn’t have been taken from this world...” 

He trailed off and looked at his feet. I wanted to say something to comfort him, but I didn’t know how. Eventually, Gideon picked up the pencil and started writing. We sat in silence for a while.  

 

“Hey, what’s the lion stand for?” I asked, pointing to his pendant. 

He looked up at me to see what I was talking about, and then smiled as he realized I was talking about his necklace.  

“My mom gave it to me when I was really little. Like four. She was Buddhist and in Buddhist tradition, lions represent strength, wisdom, and protection.” 

Protection. To protect him from his dad. I smiled sympathetically at Gideon.  

“Hey, it’s pretty hot in here, don’t you think?” he asked. I knew exactly what he was doing. I shrugged and he started taking off his long-sleeved grey shirt.  

“That’s better,” he said when his shirt was completely off. He slowly inched his fingers toward the hem of my sweatshirt and started pulling it over my head. I couldn’t move. 

All of a sudden, my bare chest was showing. I felt skinny, but then again, so was Gideon. He reached his hand up to my chest. It seemed that he suddenly realized what he was doing, because he looked up at me with the same fear in his eyes the first day he kissed me. What that fear was, I’m not quite sure. 

We held eye contact for a few seconds before I placed my hand on top of his and continued moving his hand along my chest. After a few seconds, I removed my hand, but he didn’t stop. Eventually, I lifted his chin, so he was forced to look at me. And he looked at me with admiration.  

Then, he grabbed my face in his hands and kissed me. I pulled him closer. By now, kissing him felt familiar. Suddenly, time seemed to speed up and it seemed as if we were in a hurry, like we were thirsty and touch-starved. He ran his hands through my hair the way Nick did to his hook ups. 

With our eyes closed, we continued to kiss each other eagerly. Then I drifted away from his lips and gently, but hungrily kissed his soft jawline, his throat, his collarbone. Then, I moved back to his lips. And there we sat, making out as the statue of Jesus glared down at us. 

 

We made out for a few minutes before we put our shirts back on. I had my arms around Gideon as we finished our analyzation of our poem. Suddenly, I stopped talking and smiled down at his face. As I smoothed out his hair with my hand, I heard him sigh.  

 

 

~ 

 

 

Eventually, Gideon drove me home. After sixth hour the next day, I met him in the hallway. 

“Hey, listen,” I reassured. “If you don’t feel comfortable talking about it, just let me know. I’ll say something else.” 

He smiled but then replied, “Thanks. I think I’ll be fine, though.” 

We sat down and waited for the rest of the class to arrive. When the bell rang, Ms. Williams hobbled up to the front of the room.  

 

“Alright, boys and girls. You’ve all had about a week to work with your partners and analyze a poem of your choice. Today you’re going to present your analyzations with the class. I’ll read your names in alphabetical order.”  

She slid her small, round spectacles onto the bridge of her nose and peered down at the class list. 

“Let’s see,” she said. “Jacob Allen, you and your partner are first.” 

The stocky teen walked up to the front of the class, followed by a girl. 

“So... the poem we chose was “Alone” by Maya Angelou,” the girl said. She then gestured to Jacob as if to say, ‘Come on. It’s your turn to speak.’ 

“Right, uh,” he started. “So, we agreed with Maya Angelou because everybody can become lonely.” 

They continued to analyze the poem. Finally, they ended the presentation with, “And we related to the poem because we’ve...,” the girl said, gesturing between she and Jacob. “...have both been lonely. But now we have each other so it’s all okay.”  

Jacob wrapped his arm around the girl and smiled proudly at the class, who gave scattered applause.  

“Thank you, Jacob and Sara. You may head back to your seats.” 

The next group consisted of two gloomy sophomores dressed in black steampunk-like clothes. They talked about their analyzation of the poem, “I Felt a Funeral, in my Brain” by Emily Dickinson. 

‘What a depressing poem to analyze,’ I thought to myself. Poems by Emily Dickinson were strange and sad, although I reminded myself that Gideon and I had also chosen a poem about death.  

The group finished their presentation, as did the next, who analyzed “The Negro Mother” by Langston Hughes.  

 

“This poem is heart-wrenching, especially with all the racism that goes on today. I mean, there’s not much interpretation needed. The negro life is a struggle against hate, and that’s what Langston wanted to depict,” the girl said. 

The other girl nodded. “Right. And it’s in-your-face, which is good for all these small minded, racist, white folk. We relate to this poem because it reminds us of our own mothers, who raised us to be confident and stand up for ourselves and our rights.” 

The class applauded and Ms. Williams smiled and nodded. “Nice job, Aaliyah and Trinity. Very well done. You can go back to your seats.” 

She turned back to the class. “Alright. We have time for one more group to analyze their poem in front of the class.” Ms. Williams peered at the class list again, and drug her finger down the paper. 

“Okay...,” she started. “Riley. You and your partner will be the last to present today.” Gideon and I looked at each other, and slowly started making our way up to the front of the room. 

I cleared my throat. “We decided to analyze “Enemy of Death” by Salvatore Quasimodo.”  

I looked out at our peers, who were gazing at us with disinterested eyes.  

“First thing’s first, Quasimodo used a metaphor when he says, “The sad moon in summer, the dragging anchor, took your dreams, hills, trees, light, waters, darkness...” to explain that... the woman he’s writing the poem for... her depression took away all her dreams, goals, and happiness in life.” 

“The whole poem is a metaphor, really,” Gideon continued. “Quasimodo speaks metaphorically throughout the poem to express his mourning for the woman, who many believe was Rossana Sironi, who took her life.” 

“We don’t know the exact year “Enemy of Death” was published,” I said. “Rossana Sironi didn’t die until 1948, so it was likely sometime in the 1950s. The simplified meaning of the poem is that the woman’s depression took away all her happiness and dreams, as well as convinced her the world is her enemy. At first, Quasimodo didn’t understand the reason behind her taking her life. But then, he came to understand that she wanted love, and people often only love someone once they’re dead.” 

I looked over at Gideon. He smiled at me and nodded.  

“It was challenging to relate to this poem, because neither of us had ever lost someone to suicide. However,…" he started, and cleared his throat. “I lost my mom when I was young, and...” Gideon’s cracked voice stopped his sentence. I reached over and intertwined my fingers with his. His hand felt warm as I held it. We met each other’s eyes. 

Finally, he cleared his throat again. “My mom and I were close. After she passed away... I felt alone... like I had no one. And I really didn’t. So, I can definitely relate to Quasimodo as far as mourning and feeling lost.”  

Suddenly, the bell rang, and everyone got up from their chairs hurried out the door. When everyone had left, we walked to the back of the room and grabbed our backpacks.  

“Nice job, guys,” Ms. Williams congratulated. She pat Gideon on the back as we turned to leave. 

“Hey,” I said, walking in front of Gideon so I could see his face. “You okay?” 

He nodded. “Yea, I’m fine.”