Bye Bye, Birdie – Writers House Review

By Madison Roveda

For Garret

The wedding ended late,

it was nearly three before I was in my bed.

I smoked a joint and rubbed my feet,

did I ever tell you that I smoked?

It was August-

I lived on the third floor of a house.

The air conditioner

was struggling at 60

but it was sticky hot,

and I slept with one leg out of the sheets.

We should talk soon,

and catch up,

it’s been so long.

I fell asleep.

The ringing annoyed me.

My shift was twelve hours,

but I had only been asleep for six.

There were four missed calls,

all from my mum,

she knew I would be sleeping.

“What happened? What’s wrong?”

My chest was constricted.

“Garret was in an accident last night.”

“Garret?”

Not you, you’re our Garret.

“I’m so sorry honey, I wish I could be there with you. He’s passed away…he…he died.”

I don’t remember any more of that,

I don’t need to.

I remember the important part:

you are dead,

and we are all still here.

I knew I would have to take the road,

the same one you did,

the same road that took you from us.

I was driving eighty miles away from where you left us,

mile marker 2.2

but every marker I passed was yours.

Every time I passed a box truck,

I knew it was the last thing you saw,

and could easily be the last thing

any of us would see.

Your family was having people

at your house,

well,

I guess it isn’t your house anymore,

but I was going to come either way.

I had no idea

how to be there,

or what to say,

but I had nowhere else to go for this.

I’ll spare you

of the tears and the gripping hugs

because we all know what grieving looks like.

Let’s just say it sucked.

I think the last time I was here

was three years ago now.

When I was little we used to come more,

but college and work and life,

it has kept us busy,

and busy means apart.

Oh Garret,

the shifts I would call out,

the plans I would miss,

the classes I would skip,

to spend another day with you now.

They needed a large outdoor space,

big enough to fit the hundreds of us

who were privileged

to know you

and to love you,

and who now have to learn

how to miss you.

The sweat trickled down my back

as the priest gave his sermon

and spoke of grief and loss and despair.

I’m not a Catholic (this you know well)

but I listened intently.

I tried to remember the last time I had seen your face,

now looking at the

laminated version of you

(they used your graduation photo by the way, it was a good one)

staring back at me

from the little card they handed out.

My vision swam

as my fingers brushed your cheek,

knowing they never would again.

I think I have it now,

the memory of our last time together.

Do you remember that summer night

two years ago?

We were at the Tavern,

where we had been so many times before.

The adults drank at the bar,

where we could have too

(isn’t it weird, that we’re all adults now?)

but we had Shirley temples

and walked near the lake.

It had been a few months

since we had last been together

but for the four of us it was always,

always,

as if no time had passed at all.

We would forever be those

innocent kids

as long as we were together.

Remember how much you loved Lady Gaga?

She doesn’t sound the same anymore;

I hear you singing along to every song.

Your mom and Elina

went to the microphone next,

their breathing shaky as they began to speak.

Elina talked about you,

her big brother and comedian,

her protector and instigator,

and I thought of our lives together.

You were the oldest of the four of us,

two years older,

and had the best, creepiest ghost stories.

Do you remember the way we begged you to tell it again,

stories of the Jersey Devil and Bloody Mary?

You were the best older brother I never had,

teaching me to shoot a bow and arrow

and throw ninja stars,

and even some self defense

(a black belt at eleven, really? Leave some cool for the rest of us).

Almost a year after your passing,

I decided to speak with a psychic

about you.

I was just worried,

I wanted to know if your soul was okay.

She told me you were confused,

and you were scared,

but that your grandfather was with you

guiding you

and protecting you

in a way that none of us could have here.

You were worried about your mom,

I’m sure you know this,

and you asked me to send her

white roses.

The first anniversary of your death approached,

and you knew how hard she struggled.

You said it would be a sign to her

that you were okay,

and you love her.

I sent the roses.

I hope she got the message.

Sometimes I wish I could get a message from you,

although I know it’s selfish–

I am not the only one who misses you.

The guilt has caught me by surprise the most,

the guilt of still being here

of still having a sibling

of not making the time to see you when I could have.

Sometimes I wish I could see you in a dream,

or see you how the psychic could.

But I know you have more important things going on,

and after all, we were childhood friends,

not in each other’s daily routines,

and I should’ve made the time.

Over 6,149 days

I had the chance to see you here,

and many of them I did.

But I can’t help thinking,

despite the good memories,

that at least then there was the earth,

connecting the steps we took apart from each other.

At least we had the moon;

we looked at the same one every night.

At least we had time,

time to plan dinners

and phone call catch-ups,

and nights at the Tavern

(we were supposed to sit at the bar next time).

At least you had a future,

whereas now there is only your past.

It’s been 445 days without you;

any future plans we had,

you had,

stolen.

And we all have to figure out how to live

our tens of thousands of days left

without you.

It was a different summer,

many years ago,

and we were squealing

and splashing

and swimming in my pool.

You shouted out to the birds

on the telephone wire

“Goodbye, Birdies!”

And then sang,

with an arm raised in farewell,

“Bye Bye, Birdie.

Why’d you ever have to go?”

We took up your lead,

raising our arms as well,

and sang along with you.

Madison Roveda writes, “I am a geography and environmental studies major in the Class of 2022. My hometown is New Egypt, NJ. I wrote this poem for Garret, a childhood friend who tragically passed away last summer. I love you, my dear friend. The poem was written for a course titled Intro to Health, Medicine, and Literature.