My Last Glimpse of April

Copyright © 2000 Terry Payne

That’s me. And that there… is a girl named April Owen. 

I had two passions in those days: writing, and April Owen. I want you to know that it wasn’t just that she was so cute—although you can see she was. It was that she was really—I don’t know—happy and sad… and… good inside. Better than everyone else. Not that she acted that way.

I was pathetic. I was shy, and she pretty much hung out with the Lords and Ladies. I would stare at her like a little girl. I can’t tell you how much I… what a crush I had on her. I was in pain. That was a painful year. 

I’m going to tell you about this one day—it’s like an icon in my life—the day April and I cried in a cemetary.

* * *

There was this lush cemetary. It was pretty out of the way; you wouldn’t see anyone there usually. I used to go there a lot. Anyway, this one day it was spring and really a beautiful day. In Oregon when the spring came and the sun came back it was like heaven. Now I can’t bear the spring. It depresses me now, beautiful spring days—the more beautiful the worse. Anyway, this one day I was up there—to write probably—and I was walking around looking for a spot. And I noticed these two people a little ways away, talking. And it turns out one of them was April! And the other one was this guy who was her boyfriend—Val. So I sat down there where I could kind of see them; but I couldn’t really hear them, except that you could tell that they were in a fight. You could hear him talking in that loud kind of whiny, bullying voice, you know. But it didn’t last very long; he jumped up with one last yell and stomped off. And she stayed there.

So here we were. There I was. And there was April Owen. Sitting there, and then I heard that she was crying. And I mean really crying—so hard it was embarrassing—like I felt bad for being there and hearing her. But it was like her bastard dad—that’s a whole other story—and that bastard Val, and her whole life was killing her. That’s what she was sounding like. And there I was, and I would have died for her; I really felt like I could have. I’d dreamed of it a hundred times. So, anyway, I knew I had to go and say something to her. I mean, I knew she’d probably tell me to go away or whatever, but I’d just go anyway and say something, just in case it made her feel any better—just to have someone say something nice to her just then, even if it was just me. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter what I said, really, you know? Just something like how great she was even if Val couldn’t see it, or whatever. And it would be easy ‘cause that’s really how I felt, so I’d just be honest. 

But here’s the thing. I just sat there. I just kept sitting there, and I couldn’t think of what to say. I mean, here I was, the school’s little prodigy when I was writing, but when I had to go up to April and be honest—to say something that was really, really deep and true… the words really are so stupid-sounding. “April Owen, you are a walking, bouncing, splashing, chirping, dazzling, changing, loving, singing, creating, feeling, aching, moving, free, happy, empathizing, colorful, friendly, light, beautiful, deep, yellow, striped, polka-dotted girl, with tweeting birds circling round you, in the middle of a windy field of giant dandelions, with a sun-sparkling lake beyond and Bambi drinking from it.” That is verbatim from one of my diary entries about April. See what I mean? That—is it. That nails it. Anything more profound-sounding would be false. Literature is literature. It’s art. But your real, human, crazy feelings—they really aren’t. It’s like you revert. So what do you say? What do you say!

Anyway, so I was sitting there, thinking and thinking and thinking: what I’d say that wouldn’t sound like I was trying to be funny, but wouldn’t be false. And my heart’s pounding. But really—you know?—it’s just that I was paralyzed. I was just afraid of her laughing at me. Or whatever; just afraid to go talk to her. I think that was… no, I know that was really what it was. Because, I mean, like I said, even if I said all that Bambi stuff it would have cheered her up, right? She’d laugh at me; but she’d laugh. Right? I knew that. But I just sat there, so… really, I wouldn’t die for April, would I? I just sat there like a pathetic… asshole until finally she got up to go.

So here I am, and there’s April Owen; and now she’s getting her stuff to go. And there the fucking sun is, slanting and cooling through the trees, and everything is green and glowing orange and moving in a breeze; and there’s thick lilac smell, and birds’re chirping, you know, and everthing; and it’s like, “God! Why are you torturing me? What is wrong with me? The whole world is coming alive, and I’m dying!”

And I was panicking, and it was like in slow motion: she’s lifting up her bike. She’s starting to walk it up the hill. And she passed kind of near me. And of course that would be my chance, but of course I’m scared she’ll see me. Jesus! But once she passed I’m thinking, “Okay, I’ll run over to her right now.” And my heart’s pounding. And she gets to the top and gets on.

And then she stood there for another minute. Just waiting. Like God was giving me my chance. She’s above me against the sky, and her dess’s straddling the bar, ‘cause it’s a boy’s bike; and that’s killing me. But she just stood there, looking down at the ground, at her feet or something for a minute—kind of sideways, so I can see her profile. Her hair’s kind of messed up, and a piece of it’s flickering a little in the breeze. I can so still see her there: standing there for one more beautiful, horrible minute. Against the sky.

And all of a sudden—finally—I’m running. Up through the graves as fast as I can. And I slipped and totally ripped my knee, that’s got a scar to  this day. And I’m seeing her lifting herself up on one foot.

And I’m seeing her starting to pedal. And I’m running and I’m seeing her… heading down the other side.

I got to the top… only to see her disappear where the path curved into trees at the bottom of the hill. 

* * *

The stupid thing is—I know now—I couldn’t have been happy with April. Well, maybe. I don’t know. She really was wonderful, I think; but she was—you know—simple. I even think I knew that even then, but that didn’t make any difference: all my truer sorrows and joys since haven’t gripped my heart like that moment. Like that whole year—almost two years, really. Jesus! But that moment was the pinacle of it all. It was like the story of my whole life: never having the guts to take hold of life when it stands right in front of me. Until it’s too late. Always not until I know it’s just a hair too late—it seems. Safe. Anyway, that’s how I felt. 

It’s stayed before my eyes like a crystal clear photograph to this day: that last partial glimpse of April.

Dear April, the Sycamore leaves forever spiral after you into the speckled shadows.

I cried then. And more clearly than I can remember even April’s face, I remember the tear-blurred sight of that empty path down there. The flickering trees. The sunbeams, still dusty in her wake. And all around me the tortuously beautiful, God-forsaken, dying spring afternoon. And at my feet, Jack Purcells. My brand new Jack Purcells.