Trevor

It doesn’t bother him or anybody else that Bobo was only fourteen.

His body didn’t look 14, at over 200lbs.

His face was just a boy.

He was just a boy.

I thought he was in his twenties and I said things like:

“Thank God he’s got a normal name like Trevor because he got teased as a kid. Yeah, he got the shit beat out of him.”

Brian said,

“Oak street… d-d-definitely- oak street.”

Jerry laughed with,

“Bobo!” and “When he was a kid? He was only 14.”

I dropped my forceps to cover being young. I hate being young.

Trevor had seizures for a year and a half. He didn’t bite his tongue.

I checked.

He was only fourteen.

Bobo’s lower lip stuck out like Forest Gump’s army friend that died.

Jerry went to smoke… he wasn’t eating lunch today.

I held Bobo’s hand and changed his wrist band- it was spelled wrong.

Trevor didn’t have an ‘a’ in it.

He was a non-verbal.

He had both this appendix and gallbladder.

Dr. Tess said she didn’t find anything abnormal.

I cut him open at 14.

And I complained about not having a great 16th birthday.

I sewed him up and washed him off. I scrubbed his dark legs until they turned pink.

I sprayed pink cleaner on him, until the smell of numbness left.

Bobo had the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen.

At 14.

I wonder if his mother’s boyfriend was kind- if he had kind eyes.

He was the last to see Bob alive and fourteen.

I hope he retained love as much as words.

Jerry hoped he wouldn’t button hole him because age makes a difference.

Yeah.

Nobody else seemed to be bothered.

Brian and I wheeled him to the freezer, I stayed behind.

Brain yo-yo’d back to eat cookies I had made to say goodbye.

I cried in the freezer with Trevor.

Because… honestly I didn’t know he was fourteen.

Forgive me.

His heart was 634.

Fucking fourteen.