In the Diner with the Neon Sign

Hadn't even made it to adulthood.

A terrible, awful, heart-breaking mess to clean up to boot.

Where'd it all gone so wrong?

A whole lot really. And those notes that turned into something of a manifest, explained the whole thing. In detail. It was no 13 tapes however, absolutely not. The one named Daniel had had quite a few friends and acquaintances and people who knew him and who even his stupid, defective depressed mind knew would be bothered when he left.

However, that life, those people they hardly mattered anymore.

And the road he walked this time to the other place beyond reach was different as well.

And had a different name.

The Sweet Hereafter.

Which sounded quite fifties and all too delightful if he was quite honest.

Or were those the scabby, wretched hands of his old life's sorrows?

Did he, perhaps deserve nice and sunset aesthetic? What a beautiful popping pink sunrise.

And the sign still red, jutted from the dull green metal roof. In that life, in this moment he could only hold his stomach at the memory. His old life had never permitted him a burger. Only viewed milkshakes in audition roles and the brief filming. Before his poor character was hung as an ornament and he'd relax each Thursday night to watch the rest of the gruesome, mutilating show take shape.

For brief rivulets of flowing time eyes glowing green, all too clear and knowing met the eyes of a dark-haired, alluringly destructive boy. Who opened the door with a wry, mischievous quirk of his lips.

And for a moment cotton stuffed his head. His mind whirling and briefly insane.

Cheeks flushed and the bell signaling the door shut, he wondered if perhaps he would fancy boys in his next life.

There were some whispers, there were some smiles.

There was lust in the girls' eyes. Only that was wrong. These girls, were imagining a picture show on the hood of gleaming thunderbird cars or picnics at the park or the river for a cooler, crisper breeze coloring their lovesick cheeks even pinker.

The boy sat down.

He shook hands with a football player in a vintage varsity, realized he was wearing plaid and an indie band shirt six sizes too big for a fit, slim waist, and ordered his burger with limitless refill fries.

_____________________

So that when he was born again the salty flavor of greasy fries clung to his mouth.

And it would be the vague snatch of pastel pink that would form his first memory.

Slowly fading, slowly receding into a new life before he analyzed what was between his legs.

He'd be a boy again.

When he was eight is when he heard of a terrible suicide on one of the city monuments.

Despite the blood being cleaned and flowers placed, all respects paid, the thing was considered grim and macabre.

It fascinated the boy with too bright eyes all too clear and all too knowing.

The ladies in the orphanage wrote him off as dumb. For he did not speak a word.

Because he knew there was one task required, from some old storybook or some old friend he could have never met before.

There was once a very wise, very old man who spoke sly in his ear once who had said, "babies forget their past lives." Is how the law went and how it very well should go. "When they say Mama for the first time."

Well then it was very lucky he had neither a Mama or a name.

The ladies of the orphanage wore black and grey. It was some mandatory dressing.

Just about the furthest thing from his favorite color. Pastel pink, a close second to electric blue.

Just like a volunteer whose eyes were sunken and the electric part all whittled and gone. So they looked more grey and decrepit as her pale, sallow face.

When she'd first decided he was to be hers he wasn't completely sure he'd understood.

He also didn't quite remember, six years old, if it was that he could not speak or did not choose too.

However he knew very well it was important he did not.

When she'd decided and asked of him; "would you accept me? As your Mother."

The boy put his hand in his mouth. Silent and staring.

Though the girl's lips were usually chapped and dry, the day she'd adopted him she wore a pastel pink lip gloss.

Mother spoke quite a bit. Too much, she was tempting him! Way too much!

And though she never raised her voice, never dared do anything but smile he began to be a little antsy the more time she would patiently teach him about letters and sounds and speaking and family.

"Madame," asked Daniel ten years old, "why did you name me Daniel?"

In many years and many conversations they'd compromised. His Lady's grandmama was French, and had shown him all the beautiful, elegant scripts of her home land. Her language and tongue that often represented love itself.

He much loved this lady he should be calling Mother.

But he'd not forgotten.

No, rather he remembered more and more. And he just needed...

The one more piece. One more before he and she could both move on.

"Your name?" she asked, his Lady ever gentle and ever caring for his every wish. "I named you after a dear friend, someone I loved once very much. He didn't get the chance to grow up."

And quite often he asked about her as a girl, when she was his age, when she was older. Why it seemed their town, all nice and attentive of him, didn't seem to like her.

Often there would be tears in her eyes. But she would smile anyway. Slightly chiding, "now don't worry about such things. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said."

"Maman, if you could have that friend back, would you tell him? Tell him just how much he meant?"

"Daniel."