39 candles 🎂, one wish

Let’s call him Brandon…

I saw him this Saturday walking around the Brookside Art Fair.

I recognized him immediately, despite all the neck tattoos.

But I had to second-guess it, because I thought Brandon was still in jail.

He’d been in jail for about 18 years.

But now, according to my high school friend group chat, “he was finally out.”

In high school, Brandon and I sat next to each other in Mrs. Rinkle’s art class.

Brandon was the strongest student by far.

I still remember one of his drawings. He spent what felt like a whole semester working on it…

It was a self-portrait.

A line drawing of him standing behind a chain-link fence.

The chain-link fence was perfectly drawn.

Each line—straight, crisp, exact.

No ruler needed.

Brandon and I talked a lot that semester about his girlfriend, who we’ll call Sandy.

He loved her.

I did too.

Sandy was a girl I’d known since third grade.

She was beautiful, there was no doubt about that. I never met a girl who could wear a bright pumpkin-orange dress to homecoming and make it look good.

And I will never forget Sandy’s mom. She took a group of us out of school one day, and we canvassed for voters. We drove to retirement homes and neighborhoods where folks might have trouble getting out to vote.

We offered to give them a ride in our van.

I remember that day—every time Sandy saw a tree with changing leaves, she would clap.

I still clap for trees in the fall, and I’ve taught my daughters, Amira and Yara, to do the same.

Brandon and Sandy both had big dreams.

Brandon was planning to transfer to another high school—one that had a better art program.

I always hoped he’d go there, and then end up at the Kansas City Art Institute.

I can’t remember if he ever made it there, because I’m old now, and those details have left me.

I just know Sandy and Brandon ended up having five kids together.

At the end of high school, when Sandy turned 18, she started stripping at Diamond Joe’s.

I knew about Diamond Joe’s because the owner was our neighbor.

He’d give us Italian olives in big tubs every once in a while.

Rumor had it that a few of our male teachers would venture down on Saturday night to watch Sandy dance.

I wish I could say that surprised me, but it didn’t.

Sandy died of a heroin overdose in 2020.

I feel like Brandon tried to get out to go to her funeral.

Can’t remember if he was able to or not.

It was during COVID.

I never looked up why Brandon went to prison.

I’d heard he shot someone.

I imagine if you get more than 10 years, that would have to be the case.

Although I’m no expert.

Either way, I had such a hard time believing it.

Brandon really was different than the other boys his age.

He was kind.
He was introspective.
He knew how to look at things deeply, like any good artist.

So when I saw him at the Brookside Art Fair, I wanted to say hello.

But I didn’t.

I didn’t know what to say.

So instead, I just watched him look at art.

And instead of feeling sad, I felt a bit of hope.

After 18 years in jail, missing his kids’ childhood, missing his childhood, losing his love to drugs…

He’d found his way back—
To his art.
To himself.

I pray he stays there.

Today is my 39th birthday.

My one wish…

May those of us who disappeared into hard lives, who gave up on art and our dreams, find ourselves somehow, wandering back to the canvas.