It is in that crowded, noisy place, full of hustle and bustle and purpose, that you can know lonely. To watch your closest friend walk away, suddenly and with little real fanfare, and to smile bravely one last time before they are through the gate and away, that is lonely. To wait around aimlessly for their flight to leave, just to be sure, that is lonely. Children play around you, families huddle together, single travelers look around in patient boredom. You stand at the windows, looking out into the grey evening. Think of anything for distraction. Anything at all.
It doesn't work so well. You miss them already, because it's too quiet. Lonely.
And in the car back, one person short, you can't keep your face from being long, can't save your eyes from being lifeless under a furrowed brow. That is lonely, because it's always easier to leave than to be left.
The silence after a phone call clicks to an end--that, too, is lonely. It's the absence of sound, the empty rush in your ear, the things you now want to say echoing in your head. You'd sit there for many seconds longer than you need to, just wishing, thinking, hoping, longing. Searching for something you can't find anymore, but it used to be right there.
The missing. The old memories you can't recreate or relive or even recall so clearly anymore. The things that go unsaid, the comments you wish so badly you could make, but can't anymore. The empty hiding spots. The deserted hang out places.
They are all lonely.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Hampshire
When I found you, there was nothing to hold onto.
You left me adrift.
The stars always look bleak, cold, and remote, but they were even more removed than usual the night I went out to the boonies, out to the kind of place that gives Tennessee its reputation for hicks and backwoods hillbillies. We rode out in awkward half-silence, broken only by repeated stabs at conversation and subsequent verbal fire.
I wasn't supposed to be there, really. It wasn't my place. But morality is a funny thing, and it leads us to do things for our better judgment, even if the actions are committed in spite of that same judgment.
I have rarely heard such acidity from a single tongue. I sat in the back seat and marveled at such spite, such open malice, jealousy, and insecurity. I wondered why I was there, why I had come, if I wouldn't have been better off staying downtown--an action ironic in and of itself. I had left my previous companion, with whom things were awkward enough, in order to spend time with you and your own companion, and that was ten times worse.
But more than wondering why I was there, I wondered why you were. I wondered what had brought the two of you together and what kept you here, despite the unhappiness I could see blooming all around the two of you.
She didn't even notice the glorious and flaming sunset, half hidden behind heavy grey banks of clouds and framed by the famous rolling hills of Tennessee. The weighty clouds were a fitting portent of the storm that was to come.
An hour on that dark, wooded road, one that was so familiar yet strange to me. I could hear echoes of Preston somewhere beyond the oaks and maples, in the patter of deer hooves and peep of frogs. I pressed close to the window to see the stars, my stars, the most remote, fantastic, and somehow real things to me. The dancing, pregnant moon flashed in and out of sight, lost among tree branches and a heavenly blanket of clouds. I wished for rain.
And then we were there, outside a high school that bore a strong resemblance to Preston Plains, the school I'll forever consider my true middle school. I looked up and breathed deep, finally free from the fumes of suburbia, that false freshness that has never suited me. It wasn't the summer air tinged with swamp and peat and woodsmoke that I pined for, but it was summer air nonetheless. I could hear summer frogs and crickets and owls, and that was enough for me.
The dance of discomfort began. I felt a heavy, pressing need not to crowd you or her, especially not you and her, so I drifted. You bounced back and forth, a pendulum caught between a rock and a very hard place. I waved your apologies off, since I felt more than a slight guilt for being there in the first place. You hemmed and hawed and made excuses, and I wondered who you were trying to cover up for--you or her. I wasn't going to ask.
The quiet summer air was a salve to me. I had felt locked up for so long. The slight illicitness of being here, so far away from home, gave me a thrill. I felt like we could have kept going, damn the awkward, until we were out of state, out of sight, out of obligations and stress and suburbia, and that awful thrill of wanderlust overtook me.
It was bittersweet. The two of you lying there made me miss what I lacked, even if what you had looked troubled and poisoned from my outside perspective. I thought of my own lost partner, what it might have been like if he had accompanied me the way I had planned. I missed him then, with that aching loss that can't ever be healed as quickly or completely as you wish it would. The fact that it would have been a year and one month that night didn't help. I paced with my eyes cast heavenward, asking questions that I still can't answer of a god who doesn't seem to like overt responses.
We frittered away an hour there, spaced out in the baseball field of the teamless school, the decrepit and forlorn concessions stand, the dark ribbon of road, and the tiny, orange-lit park adjacent to the school. I spent my time walking, stargazing, swinging, sitting, and musing, always musing. Ribbons of steely gray streaked the sky and blotted out the stars. I didn't miss the irony of the fact that we had picked a cloudy night to stargaze.
The ride back was quiet and tired. I came close to the window again as we drove on Miller Road's doppelganger towards the shell of a home I lived in, looking for the stars, always the stars, sometimes the only thing I recognize.
You left me adrift.
The stars always look bleak, cold, and remote, but they were even more removed than usual the night I went out to the boonies, out to the kind of place that gives Tennessee its reputation for hicks and backwoods hillbillies. We rode out in awkward half-silence, broken only by repeated stabs at conversation and subsequent verbal fire.
I wasn't supposed to be there, really. It wasn't my place. But morality is a funny thing, and it leads us to do things for our better judgment, even if the actions are committed in spite of that same judgment.
I have rarely heard such acidity from a single tongue. I sat in the back seat and marveled at such spite, such open malice, jealousy, and insecurity. I wondered why I was there, why I had come, if I wouldn't have been better off staying downtown--an action ironic in and of itself. I had left my previous companion, with whom things were awkward enough, in order to spend time with you and your own companion, and that was ten times worse.
But more than wondering why I was there, I wondered why you were. I wondered what had brought the two of you together and what kept you here, despite the unhappiness I could see blooming all around the two of you.
She didn't even notice the glorious and flaming sunset, half hidden behind heavy grey banks of clouds and framed by the famous rolling hills of Tennessee. The weighty clouds were a fitting portent of the storm that was to come.
An hour on that dark, wooded road, one that was so familiar yet strange to me. I could hear echoes of Preston somewhere beyond the oaks and maples, in the patter of deer hooves and peep of frogs. I pressed close to the window to see the stars, my stars, the most remote, fantastic, and somehow real things to me. The dancing, pregnant moon flashed in and out of sight, lost among tree branches and a heavenly blanket of clouds. I wished for rain.
And then we were there, outside a high school that bore a strong resemblance to Preston Plains, the school I'll forever consider my true middle school. I looked up and breathed deep, finally free from the fumes of suburbia, that false freshness that has never suited me. It wasn't the summer air tinged with swamp and peat and woodsmoke that I pined for, but it was summer air nonetheless. I could hear summer frogs and crickets and owls, and that was enough for me.
The dance of discomfort began. I felt a heavy, pressing need not to crowd you or her, especially not you and her, so I drifted. You bounced back and forth, a pendulum caught between a rock and a very hard place. I waved your apologies off, since I felt more than a slight guilt for being there in the first place. You hemmed and hawed and made excuses, and I wondered who you were trying to cover up for--you or her. I wasn't going to ask.
The quiet summer air was a salve to me. I had felt locked up for so long. The slight illicitness of being here, so far away from home, gave me a thrill. I felt like we could have kept going, damn the awkward, until we were out of state, out of sight, out of obligations and stress and suburbia, and that awful thrill of wanderlust overtook me.
It was bittersweet. The two of you lying there made me miss what I lacked, even if what you had looked troubled and poisoned from my outside perspective. I thought of my own lost partner, what it might have been like if he had accompanied me the way I had planned. I missed him then, with that aching loss that can't ever be healed as quickly or completely as you wish it would. The fact that it would have been a year and one month that night didn't help. I paced with my eyes cast heavenward, asking questions that I still can't answer of a god who doesn't seem to like overt responses.
We frittered away an hour there, spaced out in the baseball field of the teamless school, the decrepit and forlorn concessions stand, the dark ribbon of road, and the tiny, orange-lit park adjacent to the school. I spent my time walking, stargazing, swinging, sitting, and musing, always musing. Ribbons of steely gray streaked the sky and blotted out the stars. I didn't miss the irony of the fact that we had picked a cloudy night to stargaze.
The ride back was quiet and tired. I came close to the window again as we drove on Miller Road's doppelganger towards the shell of a home I lived in, looking for the stars, always the stars, sometimes the only thing I recognize.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Break
Busted knee, broken sigh, and it's amazing that I'm here again.
They teach you about plasticity of the brain in psychology. It's the brain's way of adapting for something that goes missing. A blind person's brain still has that blank space where sight should be, but the longer it goes unfilled, the more the areas around it begin to filter in, stealing the grey matter to do their own jobs even better. They can hear better, distinguish voices in the way a sighted person never could, and detect even the faintest touch on their body. They are blind, yes, but the body overcompensates in other areas to account for this misfortune. It bounces back.
What I'm interested in is the plasticity of the human spirit.
You've all experienced it. One moment you're happy, spirited, content with where you are and what's going on around you. You're in control, or if you're not, you're comfortable with whoever's in charge. Life is good at best, bearable at worst.
But the next second, it's gone, you're gone, you're falling. How could things ever have been better? How could things ever have been the way they used to, how could you ever have been happy with who you were and what was going on?
How were you okay?
Think of the little boy with a heaping ice cream cone. He's gloriously happy with his lot, burying his face in the sweet delight of summer. And then, with a sick sliding motion, the cone is gone, on the ground, lost to dirt and ants and hot sidewalk. His face crumples, and he sobs. The loss of that ice cream cone, something small and unimportant to others, is so massive to him that it's nearly apocalyptic.
But not 2 minutes later, he has another cone in hand, bought by a consoling parent or an exasperated older sibling, and life is good again. The old hurt is mostly forgotten, yet the tears haven't even dried on his face.
That feeling, the awful crashing, collapsing feeling of things falling apart, is unmistakable. It twists your gut and contorts your face while your heart seems to burst, and it is misery. I felt it the June evening my parents announced their divorce. I felt it the night my family pulled into a motel the morning before we would leave Preston. I felt it 10 months ago on a cold winter night not unlike those outside right now. And at the time, I was sure that things could never go back. I was sure that I'd have to stay this miserable, at least for the foreseeable future, because there was no way that this would ever be okay. There was no way I'd ever be able to escape from under the shadow such momentous moments cast on my life. It is dramatic, but in times of stress, we all turn to drama.
I was wrong.
I moved on, grew up, learned lessons, fought through. I discovered strength I didn't knew I had and friends I never would have found if not for my troubles. I found empathy. I found forgiveness. I found appreciation for things I had overlooked in the past: a hug from a friend, a good book to escape in, a walk in the park. I redefined my faith, stretching it to fit my new demands, and tested my God. I broke. I healed. I am still healing today, and will be for as long as I live.
The trick, however, is to push forward without disregarding the past. Where do our lessons come from if not our personal history? The small boy with the ice cream cone soon forgets his loss, but the new cone could still topple if he isn't careful. But even more important is maintaining hope and optimism and not falling to cynicism and harshness. It is easier to be hurt when hoping, but it is easier to love, too.
I'm not here to preach; that's my last intention. I'm searching for answers and ways to grow, like many of us are. And this is just what I have learned so far: The fall is shattering, but rebuilding is always possible.
They teach you about plasticity of the brain in psychology. It's the brain's way of adapting for something that goes missing. A blind person's brain still has that blank space where sight should be, but the longer it goes unfilled, the more the areas around it begin to filter in, stealing the grey matter to do their own jobs even better. They can hear better, distinguish voices in the way a sighted person never could, and detect even the faintest touch on their body. They are blind, yes, but the body overcompensates in other areas to account for this misfortune. It bounces back.
What I'm interested in is the plasticity of the human spirit.
You've all experienced it. One moment you're happy, spirited, content with where you are and what's going on around you. You're in control, or if you're not, you're comfortable with whoever's in charge. Life is good at best, bearable at worst.
But the next second, it's gone, you're gone, you're falling. How could things ever have been better? How could things ever have been the way they used to, how could you ever have been happy with who you were and what was going on?
How were you okay?
Think of the little boy with a heaping ice cream cone. He's gloriously happy with his lot, burying his face in the sweet delight of summer. And then, with a sick sliding motion, the cone is gone, on the ground, lost to dirt and ants and hot sidewalk. His face crumples, and he sobs. The loss of that ice cream cone, something small and unimportant to others, is so massive to him that it's nearly apocalyptic.
But not 2 minutes later, he has another cone in hand, bought by a consoling parent or an exasperated older sibling, and life is good again. The old hurt is mostly forgotten, yet the tears haven't even dried on his face.
That feeling, the awful crashing, collapsing feeling of things falling apart, is unmistakable. It twists your gut and contorts your face while your heart seems to burst, and it is misery. I felt it the June evening my parents announced their divorce. I felt it the night my family pulled into a motel the morning before we would leave Preston. I felt it 10 months ago on a cold winter night not unlike those outside right now. And at the time, I was sure that things could never go back. I was sure that I'd have to stay this miserable, at least for the foreseeable future, because there was no way that this would ever be okay. There was no way I'd ever be able to escape from under the shadow such momentous moments cast on my life. It is dramatic, but in times of stress, we all turn to drama.
I was wrong.
I moved on, grew up, learned lessons, fought through. I discovered strength I didn't knew I had and friends I never would have found if not for my troubles. I found empathy. I found forgiveness. I found appreciation for things I had overlooked in the past: a hug from a friend, a good book to escape in, a walk in the park. I redefined my faith, stretching it to fit my new demands, and tested my God. I broke. I healed. I am still healing today, and will be for as long as I live.
The trick, however, is to push forward without disregarding the past. Where do our lessons come from if not our personal history? The small boy with the ice cream cone soon forgets his loss, but the new cone could still topple if he isn't careful. But even more important is maintaining hope and optimism and not falling to cynicism and harshness. It is easier to be hurt when hoping, but it is easier to love, too.
I'm not here to preach; that's my last intention. I'm searching for answers and ways to grow, like many of us are. And this is just what I have learned so far: The fall is shattering, but rebuilding is always possible.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Ball and Chain
It's amazing, all the things you've said about us
It's amazing, and true.
And it's amazing that I can still sing this song so simply about you.
Because, after all, it is just one of those things.
I remember the snapping feeling and the flood of understanding. I remember the bitter and cynical power it afforded me, the power to look back and scorn my own actions and yours. For a few days, I stayed that way, confident that this was the new me and that I'd finally struggled off of the plateau I'd been bogged down on for so long.
And all it took was one song and one sermon to shake me, one song and one sermon to call attention to the beautiful flaw in my reasoning: I am not that person. I am not that cold, I am not that harsh.
If you are like me, admitting that you were mistaken is no easy task. I admit that I fight against it at times, struggling to retain some sense of right even if I'm proven wrong. And so I struggled against myself, saying that I was reverting and I couldn't go back to this. But the seed was planted, and I couldn't ignore what grew from it.
I realized this: anybody can be a cynic. Anybody can harden themselves to others and scoff at cliched and gooey memories, thoughts, and actions. Anybody can criticize, anybody can hurt. There's no challenge in that for many of us.
The challenge lies instead in knowing our mistakes and accepting ourselves and each other anyway. The challenge comes in letting go without burning what's behind you. The challenge is not to hurt, but to heal.
"You are afraid you might forget, but you never will. You will forgive and remember. Think of the vine that curls from the small square plot that was once my heart. That is the only marker you need. Move on. Walk on into the light."
Because, after all, it is just one of those things.
It's amazing, and true.
And it's amazing that I can still sing this song so simply about you.
Because, after all, it is just one of those things.
I remember the snapping feeling and the flood of understanding. I remember the bitter and cynical power it afforded me, the power to look back and scorn my own actions and yours. For a few days, I stayed that way, confident that this was the new me and that I'd finally struggled off of the plateau I'd been bogged down on for so long.
And all it took was one song and one sermon to shake me, one song and one sermon to call attention to the beautiful flaw in my reasoning: I am not that person. I am not that cold, I am not that harsh.
If you are like me, admitting that you were mistaken is no easy task. I admit that I fight against it at times, struggling to retain some sense of right even if I'm proven wrong. And so I struggled against myself, saying that I was reverting and I couldn't go back to this. But the seed was planted, and I couldn't ignore what grew from it.
I realized this: anybody can be a cynic. Anybody can harden themselves to others and scoff at cliched and gooey memories, thoughts, and actions. Anybody can criticize, anybody can hurt. There's no challenge in that for many of us.
The challenge lies instead in knowing our mistakes and accepting ourselves and each other anyway. The challenge comes in letting go without burning what's behind you. The challenge is not to hurt, but to heal.
"You are afraid you might forget, but you never will. You will forgive and remember. Think of the vine that curls from the small square plot that was once my heart. That is the only marker you need. Move on. Walk on into the light."
Because, after all, it is just one of those things.
Friday, September 11, 2009
For our musicians
I wrote this about a year ago, on a random spur of energy. I rediscovered it earlier this afternoon and thought, what the heck, why not post it. Hope you enjoy.
The great pacific beast hulked blackly in the center of the room, gleaming superficially. Regality permeated the air around it, causing visitors to the room to fall into a hushed reverence upon setting foot on the highly polished ash floor. The beast bore a hunchback; its smooth lid was held in the air by a single, delicate stalk. Its veins and spine were visible below this sloped cover. The brass on them twinkled in anticipation for what was to come. Its teeth glittered in the bright sunlight, ebony glimmering faintly and ivory shining gaily. Three solid legs, two at the front and one at the back, held the beast up to stand proud. In front of the teeth sat a plain black stool, expectant for its master.
A young man entered the room and walked slowly to the beast. He was tall and slender, with long arms and large, slim-fingered hands. His dark brown hair was untidy and looked slightly damp, like he had just taken a shower. His face betrayed his youth; it was the face of 17-year-old, close to manhood but not quite. He had a roughly oval face with a high brow, straight nose, and almost pointed chin. The teen’s wide eyes were a dark peat brown. His gaze was thoughtful and distant but became more focused as he approached the great being and ran a single, gentle hand along its teeth, preparing himself. He sat on the bench and centered himself before the beast, closing his eyes to take a preparatory breath.
He bent his head toward the keys and began to play.
He began quietly, his notes and chords soft and gentle. But after only a moment of peaceful build-up, his playing began to escalate. Slowly, his hands moved faster and faster, arpeggios and crescendos rolling off of the keys like rain off a leaf. Below his capable hands, the beast trembled and shook, its inner hammers beating upon the veins like so many hearts. The bass notes thundered like the steps of an oncoming army, the treble notes quivered in the air to be quickly overcome by more. His quick hands flashed from one end of the piano to the other, and his knees shifted subtly below the keys as he pressed the pedals expertly.
The song he played was fast and fierce, anger swelling and ebbing within it like a storm-tossed ship. It alternately calmed and infuriated itself, one second full of pounding chords and notes and the next ambling along sweetly with a few simple presses of a key. But the overall impression of the song was one of power and beauty. Perhaps a fuming beauty, but a beauty nonetheless. The power within it was unconcealed; it even lurked behind the slower, softer parts.
Above the keys, he moved back and forth with the music, his shoulders hunching during times of tension and slumping during times of release. His face showed hints of concentration and focus, but at times it was impassive. Only his eyes belayed any sense of feeling during these random periods, sometimes staring blankly at the piano in front of him and sometimes looking down to the keys for confirmation.
An indeterminate amount of time later, the youth’s hands slowed, bringing the music to a soft, near-reluctant halt. He held the last note until it had nearly faded away completely, then pressed a pedal and pulled his hands from the piano. His previously slumped shoulders straightened, and he passed a pale hand over a face that looked more tired than it had before playing. He stood up slowly from the bench and shuffled sideways to be free of it, exiting the room without a backwards glance.
Behind him, the great black beast seemed to sit forlornly in the middle of the room, its booming voice silenced. It gradually drew its stately cover over itself again to sit in cold glory.
The great pacific beast hulked blackly in the center of the room, gleaming superficially. Regality permeated the air around it, causing visitors to the room to fall into a hushed reverence upon setting foot on the highly polished ash floor. The beast bore a hunchback; its smooth lid was held in the air by a single, delicate stalk. Its veins and spine were visible below this sloped cover. The brass on them twinkled in anticipation for what was to come. Its teeth glittered in the bright sunlight, ebony glimmering faintly and ivory shining gaily. Three solid legs, two at the front and one at the back, held the beast up to stand proud. In front of the teeth sat a plain black stool, expectant for its master.
A young man entered the room and walked slowly to the beast. He was tall and slender, with long arms and large, slim-fingered hands. His dark brown hair was untidy and looked slightly damp, like he had just taken a shower. His face betrayed his youth; it was the face of 17-year-old, close to manhood but not quite. He had a roughly oval face with a high brow, straight nose, and almost pointed chin. The teen’s wide eyes were a dark peat brown. His gaze was thoughtful and distant but became more focused as he approached the great being and ran a single, gentle hand along its teeth, preparing himself. He sat on the bench and centered himself before the beast, closing his eyes to take a preparatory breath.
He bent his head toward the keys and began to play.
He began quietly, his notes and chords soft and gentle. But after only a moment of peaceful build-up, his playing began to escalate. Slowly, his hands moved faster and faster, arpeggios and crescendos rolling off of the keys like rain off a leaf. Below his capable hands, the beast trembled and shook, its inner hammers beating upon the veins like so many hearts. The bass notes thundered like the steps of an oncoming army, the treble notes quivered in the air to be quickly overcome by more. His quick hands flashed from one end of the piano to the other, and his knees shifted subtly below the keys as he pressed the pedals expertly.
The song he played was fast and fierce, anger swelling and ebbing within it like a storm-tossed ship. It alternately calmed and infuriated itself, one second full of pounding chords and notes and the next ambling along sweetly with a few simple presses of a key. But the overall impression of the song was one of power and beauty. Perhaps a fuming beauty, but a beauty nonetheless. The power within it was unconcealed; it even lurked behind the slower, softer parts.
Above the keys, he moved back and forth with the music, his shoulders hunching during times of tension and slumping during times of release. His face showed hints of concentration and focus, but at times it was impassive. Only his eyes belayed any sense of feeling during these random periods, sometimes staring blankly at the piano in front of him and sometimes looking down to the keys for confirmation.
An indeterminate amount of time later, the youth’s hands slowed, bringing the music to a soft, near-reluctant halt. He held the last note until it had nearly faded away completely, then pressed a pedal and pulled his hands from the piano. His previously slumped shoulders straightened, and he passed a pale hand over a face that looked more tired than it had before playing. He stood up slowly from the bench and shuffled sideways to be free of it, exiting the room without a backwards glance.
Behind him, the great black beast seemed to sit forlornly in the middle of the room, its booming voice silenced. It gradually drew its stately cover over itself again to sit in cold glory.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Selective Hearing
When I found you, there was nothing to hold tight to. You left me adrift.
You'll only bleed me dry, so I'll ask you kindly to make your way.
You think it's alright--can't you feel the knife?
Pressing matters bear
If it's all or nothing, then let me go.
There is time, so much time
When push comes to shove, this is getting old.
You pray for rain, I pray for blindness
But now he lives inside someone he doesn't recognize,
We say goodnight from our own separate sides
and I'm not who I used to be.
Just because you've forgotten, that don't mean you're forgiven
I'm living in an age that calls darkness light--
Though my language is dead, still the shapes fill my head
Now that I'm older, my heart's colder,
I guess we'll just have to adjust
And I can see that it's a lie.
I try to write, but it's wrong
No one to leave the lights on
No answer
Search my face
A hopeless embrace
Let's start over again
Why can't we start it over again?
This time, we'll get it right.
I can't talk to you anymore,
and I miss you.
Set my spirit free
Set my body free
You'll only bleed me dry, so I'll ask you kindly to make your way.
You think it's alright--can't you feel the knife?
Pressing matters bear
If it's all or nothing, then let me go.
There is time, so much time
When push comes to shove, this is getting old.
You pray for rain, I pray for blindness
But now he lives inside someone he doesn't recognize,
We say goodnight from our own separate sides
and I'm not who I used to be.
Just because you've forgotten, that don't mean you're forgiven
I'm living in an age that calls darkness light--
Though my language is dead, still the shapes fill my head
Now that I'm older, my heart's colder,
I guess we'll just have to adjust
And I can see that it's a lie.
I try to write, but it's wrong
No one to leave the lights on
No answer
Search my face
A hopeless embrace
Let's start over again
Why can't we start it over again?
This time, we'll get it right.
I can't talk to you anymore,
and I miss you.
Set my spirit free
Set my body free
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Quentin
The stopgap thinking has me going again, and I'm jumping from scene to scene, skipping like a perfectly pitched stone over the smooth surface tumbled underneath pool of memory.
Sometimes, the divided walls of order fall down in my mind. Thoughts carry me from association to association suddenly, easily, and then I'm reeling back, falling in, lost again.
It was dark and humid in that room. You could smell the summer, warm and heavy, making you sticky with sweat and giving everything a damp feel. Outside, the frogs were peeping and bellowing and trumpeting in competition with the whirs of crickets and the whisper of the wind. I laid there in my bed, watching the stars from my window, waiting for the blessed breeze, and I was perfectly content, filled with a deep, quiet happiness that didn't seem to gel with the mind of a 12-year-old.
We buried her out in the back corner of my yard, right between the blackberry and blueberry bushes. Dad dug the hole deep so nothing could get at her after, and he laid her down in it wrapped in the towel she had died in. At 8 years old, death means nothing to a little girl. I knew only that she wasn't moving and her body was stiff, unnatural, all of the spark gone out of her. I wasn't crying, but my parents were. Dad loved that cat. We put lime, white lyme, on top of her first. I still don't know why. And then she was gone, only a brown dent in the ground to show anything had happened at all. I swore I could see her out my window for days after that.
I woke up in the middle of the night, my breath misting in front of me. I could feel it in the air; the charged atmosphere revealing that something had happened. I didn't have to look far. Snow hung heavy on the tree branches outside my window, frost forming lacy outlines on the glass. I didn't care that the floors were freezing on my warm bare feet. I crept downstairs and, trembling a little, opened the back door. There is no silence like the silence of snowfall. Everything was cast in blue light outside, and I caught my breath at the beauty. Only the distant voice of the wind and the soft hissing patter of snowflakes could be heard around me, and it was beautiful, the most beautiful thing I have seen yet.
We had walked for over an hour, up and down hills, pushing through bushes and around trees on the little-used path Dad had somehow found. For once, it was just the two of us. Skeleton trees danced around us, their dead orange and brown bounty crunching underfoot. The forest has a kind of noisy quiet. It feels muffled, like you're removed from the outside world. When I was younger, I would always think of the Native Americans and how they used to creep through these very woods. Echoes of that sounded now. We climbed a rise, and then we were finally there. An open field of cattails stretched the length of a football field in front of us, all two or more feet taller than I was. In a twist of picturesque fate, the sun had just begun to sink below the horizon to the west of the field, and the sky was brilliant pinks, oranges, golds, and purples. A chill in the air heralded the winter that was to come. The two of us stood there without speaking, taking in the sight of the field. "Look," my father breathed, and I followed the tip of his finger to see the arched antlers of a buck, zigzagging wildly across the field and away from us. We didn't stay long enough. I took a cattail home to show my mom, a proud trophy of what felt like an unreal adventure.
Happy trails.
Sometimes, the divided walls of order fall down in my mind. Thoughts carry me from association to association suddenly, easily, and then I'm reeling back, falling in, lost again.
It was dark and humid in that room. You could smell the summer, warm and heavy, making you sticky with sweat and giving everything a damp feel. Outside, the frogs were peeping and bellowing and trumpeting in competition with the whirs of crickets and the whisper of the wind. I laid there in my bed, watching the stars from my window, waiting for the blessed breeze, and I was perfectly content, filled with a deep, quiet happiness that didn't seem to gel with the mind of a 12-year-old.
We buried her out in the back corner of my yard, right between the blackberry and blueberry bushes. Dad dug the hole deep so nothing could get at her after, and he laid her down in it wrapped in the towel she had died in. At 8 years old, death means nothing to a little girl. I knew only that she wasn't moving and her body was stiff, unnatural, all of the spark gone out of her. I wasn't crying, but my parents were. Dad loved that cat. We put lime, white lyme, on top of her first. I still don't know why. And then she was gone, only a brown dent in the ground to show anything had happened at all. I swore I could see her out my window for days after that.
I woke up in the middle of the night, my breath misting in front of me. I could feel it in the air; the charged atmosphere revealing that something had happened. I didn't have to look far. Snow hung heavy on the tree branches outside my window, frost forming lacy outlines on the glass. I didn't care that the floors were freezing on my warm bare feet. I crept downstairs and, trembling a little, opened the back door. There is no silence like the silence of snowfall. Everything was cast in blue light outside, and I caught my breath at the beauty. Only the distant voice of the wind and the soft hissing patter of snowflakes could be heard around me, and it was beautiful, the most beautiful thing I have seen yet.
We had walked for over an hour, up and down hills, pushing through bushes and around trees on the little-used path Dad had somehow found. For once, it was just the two of us. Skeleton trees danced around us, their dead orange and brown bounty crunching underfoot. The forest has a kind of noisy quiet. It feels muffled, like you're removed from the outside world. When I was younger, I would always think of the Native Americans and how they used to creep through these very woods. Echoes of that sounded now. We climbed a rise, and then we were finally there. An open field of cattails stretched the length of a football field in front of us, all two or more feet taller than I was. In a twist of picturesque fate, the sun had just begun to sink below the horizon to the west of the field, and the sky was brilliant pinks, oranges, golds, and purples. A chill in the air heralded the winter that was to come. The two of us stood there without speaking, taking in the sight of the field. "Look," my father breathed, and I followed the tip of his finger to see the arched antlers of a buck, zigzagging wildly across the field and away from us. We didn't stay long enough. I took a cattail home to show my mom, a proud trophy of what felt like an unreal adventure.
Happy trails.
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