To the Hairdresser That Likes to Talk           

I’m sorry for digging my nose deep into the People magazine so I can read about “Who Wore It Best” at the last, big glamour gig in Hollywood. I’m sorry for not being more enthralling, for not dishing the juiciest gossip of our small town, for not playing the role that comes with the swivel chair. I’m sorry for leaving you to gulp in the awkward air that surrounded the snips and cuts of the scissors searing off my dead ends. I’m sorry that my hair takes so long to do, and that I let the cold chill of silence creep in and replace the hot air that typically circulates through a hair salon.

Funeral Mannerisms           

I stood stone-faced, solemn. Sometimes a smile would creep across my face, or laughter would escape my lips as I greeted the thousand-some-odd guests that appeared. They loved you. I could tell by their tears, which they’d relinquish in exuberance as their need to show how much they did love you. Good lord that pissed me off. Is that what love is measured by? That’s why they were there. Not for me. Not for you. But to show us that they loved you, or had, now that you are gone, to show the world that they could cry for someone that had been impactful, important, irreplaceable. The nerve of those people- approaching me with tears streaming down their faces. ‘She was my mother!’ I wanted to scream, but that would have been inappropriate. I didn’t cry. Why did they get to cry, to make me feel as though I didn’t love you enough, that I was in the wrong. I don’t know how to act at something like this; they don’t teach you such etiquette in school.

I’m sorry I must not have thought you were worth the tears. I’m sorry that showing emotion publicly makes me uncomfortable and embarrassed. I’m sorry my pride was larger than my love for you, mom.

To My First Boyfriend Who Never Actually Broke Up With Me

I feel like I’ve given you quite a bit of space, almost five years if I’m not mistaken. I heard you had a kid last year. It might be time we ended things.

To the Cat I Made My Best Friend

I can’t believe you’ve put up with me for these past eighteen years. I would’ve told me to fuck off a long time ago. I know you hated me for at least the first three years we became acquainted. I drug you around to wherever I went- up the stairs, in from the outdoors, through the living room, onto my lap- as though you were made of stuffing and faux fur rather than flesh and blood. You never scratched me once. You were one of the only friends I had.

Thanks for only growling on occasion and purring more often than not. I’m sorry you loathed me when I loved you so much. I’m glad you still lounge with me in the recliner when I visit home. I’m sorry I was such a child terror.

To the Boy Who Brought Me Peruvian Lilies

When you appeared at my door, flowers in hand, I was caught completely off guard. First dates don’t go like that. At least not in the social construct of this day and age. As I took the flowers, I rushed, red faced, flushed with embarrassment, past my roommate to deposit them on the counter and make a quick escape out the door. Realizing I shouldn’t be the asshole I wanted to be, I took my time to chop the ends off each stem, stir the flower food into the water, and arrange each flower in the “vase” that I drink gin out of on the weekends.

Then you opened the car door for me on our way to coffee. I’m sorry I wasn’t raised in the normalcy of where these classic dating rituals exist. The words you tell me are sweet. Too sweet. Not the flattery that men use to gain access into our pants or to unclip our bras. Your words are genuine. I’m sorry I never learned how to take a compliment correctly. I’m sorry it embarrasses me more than it makes me swoon.

I’m sorry it’s been weeks since that day, and you’re still waiting for me to agree to hangout, to hold your hand, to let you hold me in your arms. I’m sorry you call me sweetheart, when I’m not even sure I have one at all. I’m sorry that when you ask me out, I say I’m unavailable, meaning more than just the incapability of being physically present. I’m sorry you’ll figure that out at some point.

To the Lady I Held on the Side of the Road 

I’m sorry for your four kids that lost their father. I’m sorry that you and your husband took the curve far too fast for the motorcycle upon which you both rode. I’m sorry neither of you were wearing helmets. I’m sorry that as you laid twitching, back broken, body half on the pavement, half on the gravel shoulder, your husband was ten feet off to the left, dying. I’m sorry for the two people who alternated chest-pounding compressions of hopeless CPR to no avail. I’m sorry that I lied to you, telling you he would be fine, that you were okay, and everything would be alright. I’m sorry for your children who will grow up without him, grow up with the pain of losing a parent, a gaping hole that would never be filled.

I’m sorry my emotions were rather lacking and out-of-sorts. I’m sorry we were the ones to find you two splayed upon the road like feral cats or rodents. I’m sorry I already forgot your name, but the image of your face contorted in physical pain and emotional angst, blood running from the gash along the right side of your forehead toward my latex-gloved hand, will seep into my dreams at night and continue to haunt me. I’m sorry for not being able to alter the course of history, not being able to take away the pain. I’m sorry your broken back was the least painful part of the whole ordeal. I’m sorry we couldn’t do more. 

To My Insecure History Teacher 

Your eye always used to twitch. That’s how I knew you were on edge.  Your tell was so easy. It just became a game for us. I’m sorry you made yourself such an easy target, that you became the brunt of my boredom.

I’m sorry that every time I laughed you thought it was directed at you. I’m sorry that you let a bunch of high schoolers get under your skin- how little you must have felt to let a few chuckles make your blood boil. I’m sorry we had to sit in the same classroom for two whole years. I’m sorry you broke your back during smokejumper training. I’m sorry your regret makes you hard to deal with and unbelievably bitter.

I’m sorry you had to give up on your dreams to become my history teacher.

To My Instagram Followers

I know you didn’t go to your feed looking for a long, sappy post of some forest I watched be violated by the flames we fought, or to see another action shot of the powder wake we left behind by skis previously slashing through snow. The unfollow button isn’t much more work than scrolling by without tapping the “heart” that signifies you like, or at least acknowledge, my work. Keep scrolling, the depth ends soon, shallower things lie ahead.

To the Cowboy Whose Smile Had Us All Fooled             

The year you worked for my parents still rang true to some of my mom’s favorite memories on the ranch. You, gangly and grinning, proudly mounted atop some of our quarter horses- more broke than the rank broncs you were used to riding.

The morning I woke up and overheard my brother telling my mom you had killed yourself, I pretended to be asleep, thinking if I stayed in bed it wouldn’t be true.

I’m sorry your brother killed himself when we were young, another cowboy we buried too soon. I’m sorry that at sixteen we’re all a little messed up, that our heads aren’t on quite right.

I’m sorry that I never asked how you were doing because I always assumed the smile spoke for itself, that you never had anyone ask, that you never got the help you needed. 

I’m sorry you showed us what we wanted to see, and that we were so ignorant to your sorrows.

I’m sorry that your two best friends had to find you, gun in hand, blood spattered across your windows, without even a simple note left for us.

I’m sorry none of us were ever the same.

To the Boy I Told I Loved in High School When Neither of Us Were Ready 

That day we laid on my couch, my throat swollen with strep throat, you comforting me (unlike what any other typical seventeen-year-old boyfriend would do).

I looked into your eyes- what had once been my favorite chocolate eyes, and I had the most courageous moment of my life. I told you I loved you.

You responded that I had “just lost my ‘I-love-you-ginity.’”

To All the People Who Assumed I Was a Little Boy

Yes, I had very short hair. Sometimes when you’re little, you don’t get to choose, you just get what you get. My mom thought I looked best with short hair, so the classic bleach-blonde, bowl cut was what I rocked during the first decade of my life. Two older brothers didn’t help the gender confusion either. The amount of money you save via hand-me-downs is unbelievable, so used basketball shorts and male t-shirts were what accompanied the superb haircut to finish off my masculine look.

I’m sorry to everyone that told my mom ‘what a cute little boy’ she had. My mom didn’t give a shit what other people thought. “If you’re going to play with the big boys, then you have to be as tough as them too,” she’d tell me, having been one of the first women hired on to the Seattle Police Department.

I was alright with being a tomboy, mom was one, too.

To the Brother I Didn’t Know How to Comfort

Mom looked really cold. You guys had definitely always connected on a different level. You even stepped into her shoes, walking the same police patrol beat routes in Seattle.

I’m sorry that when you collapsed at her side, your 6’4 figure shuddering into that of a little boy, searching for a mother’s reassurance, you weren’t able to find any. I’m sorry that it made me deeply uncomfortable to watch you cry, as you gasped for air, reaching for her hand, kneeling in a defeat I’ve never witnessed before. I’m sorry that even at twenty years old, all I could offer you was my hand as we left the mortuary.

Kate Averett has worked as a wildland firefighter for the U.S. Forest Service for the last five years and is a recent graduate from the University of Idaho. Beyond this, Kate spends her free time writing both personal nonfiction essays and poetry, which is her way to admit or acknowledge the truth about any emotions and feelings she has, which otherwise would never see the surface.