Spring was setting, and summer rose. It was a beauty that ate out your heart, leaving it hollow, needing to be filled with wonder. Like an apple hollowed by a worm, so the sunsets I saw ate me alive. I felt like I needed to grasp it. With my power, keep it where it was, so I could awe for one more minute. I felt like every moment was priceless, and I was letting a Van Gogh slip between my grasping fingers, fingers that grasp like a baby for its bottle.
But this summer was hollow for me. And my life remained so for the rest of my years. It is strange that God makes us to love one another devotedly, but we always seem to break one another, leaving our family desperate and dying. Like Cole left me and Dad. Like Cole broke my heart, not in the traditional sense, but he broke it like so many glass shards that I found in his apartment.
This story is a stunning reality that appeared to our non-suspecting family after years of happiness. It was rain on a sunny day that turned into a black hurricane that claimed lives. Like my brother’s.
Today, I keep thinking of those happy times we had. The time when the grass was green, the neighbor’s dogs would come over and, with their silky long hair waving in the breeze; they would use their weight to knock me over by rolling onto me. Cole hadn’t liked the dogs; he thought that they my might crush me. He was very protective. But that’s what made this day perfect. I knew then, that my older brother, liked, no, loved, his little, annoying, bratty sister.
Another time, I sat by the fountain in the park. I was writing what I felt.
Strangely, I wrote it as perfectly as I felt it. I wrote the whole spectrum of mixed-up light; I formed a rainbow from my non-existent life. I remember how angry I was when he saw. His face was complexly confused while he read my diary; I, on accident, left it sitting out on the table. How insensitive I thought him! But I really was thankful. I was thankful that someone I loved really could understand me.
And I know that he knew it.
As I stared into the fragmented face of the little porcelain boy, I remembered that look the first time Cole ran away. The look that I received when I startled him climbing out the window. Throwing his stuff out. He was surprised at the angry tears that I hoped would burn his skin. The tears that I hoped would make him hurt. And I was happy, because they did. He looked bewildered, took his stuff, and ran.
He was found, of course. He was only 15, and was easily spotted sleeping on the bench in a park 10 miles from our house. It was so pathetic, so frustrating to his spirit. I was ashamed for him, and ashamed to look at him, and ashamed that maybe it was myself that ran him away. Shame. That was what took root in our house.
I wanted to die. Simply. Clearly. I wanted to die and escape these emotional bonds that tied me to the very thing that was dragging me down. I couldn’t stand, I couldn’t sit. I was being tortured by my brother. How my heart cracked and moaned, like the wood on a ship screaming for its past life, free and green.
No longer was there shame in my heart. No longer anger. But a reflective worrisome spirit. Could I have stopped this from happening. Stopped this by not looking at him in anger when he ran. Not being angry for stealing my journal. Maybe it was my fault he did this horrible crime, violating himself. Maybe it was my visit that set him off…
In the back of my mind, I knew the truth. It was Cole that hated Cole. He caused himself to do this. It was a chasm full of guilt that caused him to pick up one of these fragments I’m looking at now…and…
I knew that no longer was the world a green place, full of playful dogs and caring people who loved you more than themselves. How so very proud we are! I wanted to scream at myself. So very proud. I was proud, thinking that my troubles were the only thing that was important right here and now. Cole was so very proud, so proud that he couldn’t look his own family in the face, couldn’t say he cared anymore. Couldn’t be there to protect me. The strange thing: I needed him to protect me, from himself.
I gathered all the random stuff from his apartment into two cardboard boxes. They were full of needles, aluminum foil, spent cigarettes, beer cans, and strange knick-knacks that Cole latched onto when he found them. Like a crab to a washed up soda can. I understood why he latched though. He was trying to find the old joy he knew; the joy that would no longer see his face.
I put it all into two boxes. And I threw them all away. This was not the Cole I knew. This was someone hard and uncaring, someone…who took the easiest way out as to not face the glaring wrong in his life.
I drove home, my whole body smelling of smoke. I was disgusted.
And all I could think on, all I could remember, was that vivid memory, the only one of us together, playing a simple board game. It was just how it was, not anything spectacular. But that was it. Just us, together. Playing nicely. And I didn’t realize the preciousness of that moment. Not realized that the ones I love would soon be gone. Not realizing that my life was a series of images. I was thrust into one of them, but so many more were coming. They started off backlit and beautiful, looking like flowing water from year to year. They then turned quickly into ash.
I could only pray that God would restore some color to my life; I could only pray that this hole in my heart would be mended in time; I could only pray that I could cut out the memory of this apartment that held your death, and replace it with those happy times we had; I could only pray for forgiveness.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Monday, July 12, 2010
Old Men in a Window Shop
She cheerfully giggled again.
“I know right! It makes him look like an idiot.”
“Awww, but he’s almost cute!”
“Yah right! I don’t think so!”
Those hateful, scarlet words that poured out of their mouths, describing the pair of earmuffs that covered the scars; that aching pounding that wouldn’t cease until they were gone; finally, ended.
If only they could…no they wouldn’t ever. They wouldn’t ever understand what it felt like, at least, for now. Age is a hilarious thing to the fools who are right now aging. It nearly made me laugh through the pain. The thought that these pretty girls would someday be sitting where
I am now. Friendless. Without a family. Alone, in hospice.
These young ones always thought themselves so clever. They immediately would recognize…my…disability, then scandalize it as if I had any choice. As if I had any possibility to somehow regain my hearing. To somehow make my own mouth spurt words wherein none could come. A well that dries up, only that could understand me now.
It was picturesque in a way though. Dried up. Dried up like the prunes I was forced to eat, what made me blush from the crassness of the thing. Dried up like the land outside of my hospice window. Dried up like my withered old life. Dried up till there was no water, then left to scald and die. Wither. Fade. Then extinguish.
But the fact that so many had to scorn me, me, in my dumbness. In my sense loss. But little did they know my gift. The gift that allowed me to not only see what they are saying, but to See what they were saying.
I could see that young man’s mouth move when he read those poems outside on the gathering lawn. I hid behind my window for hours, watching, as he waited. He always waited to see her, knowing that she could neither see, nor hear, nor feel him. He was reading as if to someone. Practicing. Practicing to recite it to that shriveled old woman who would not hear him. I wished he would visit me secretly. But I knew there was no chance. The nurses here did not know my gift, and I wasn’t about to tell them. They treated me like a dog, a dumb animal that couldn’t understand its master.
I could picture him in there every day, reciting like a school-boy. Unoriginal and afraid, he came off with so much awkwardness. It was strange, put so much effort in to talk to a living corpse.
Yet as he sat there now, there was no awkwardness. He recited believing. His mouth moving distinctly, his words pouring a fountain of Minty greens and Placid blues. They mixed together with the lawn and sunshine, and created a fairy garden for these never dying poems to reside in. I wished I could get out there and live with them too, discussing many dead poet’s poetry. To talk to the young man.
But I couldn’t…at least, not until 4:00 P.M.: walking time.
What was the use of walking time!? What was the use when I felt like walking all the time, felt like escaping this grey world that was now my home. I felt like walking. I couldn’t just sit around waiting till I was “allowed” exercise. Was I a prisoner in a prison camp?! I felt betrayed. How could my own family…another time.
The man in the Fairy lawn left because his grandmother died. She simply disappeared off the face of the world, like the engagement ring on his finger. His dedication, his earnest poetry was not enough. I never saw him again. But he left happy, because he believed his grandmother hear his words. And I believe it.
I do hope he listened to those poems, not only read them.
I missed hearing words, hearing gentle caressing. I missed the opera music my mother was so fond of, playing on repeat throughout the day. I smiled remembering her practicing in the basement when she thought others couldn’t hear. But, we laughed at her then. Hatefully.
What a blessing to be able to hear. I faintly remember that last week. I remember the sound of my mother’s goodnight kiss, the sound it made on my cheek. I remember my father working in the garage as I tried to sleep. Sharp banging, metal on metal. The snores of my baby sister. She was diagnosed with Leukemia the same month of my accident. I didn’t realize, I didn’t appreciate. My life, my family would change.
I was simply alone. No one stood between me and death, no compromiser, no physical hand to comfort. Just the cold fingers of the nurses, the nurses who had inch-long fake nails. My wife: non-existent. My kids: the same. I lived always alone. Now: I die alone.
Fitting.
And these young children try to harass me, without knowing. These living corpses that have their fun, then pass from memory. The children that try to bring my spirit down. But they don’t realize that you can’t get a spirit down when it’s already three-feet into quicksand.
“I know right! It makes him look like an idiot.”
“Awww, but he’s almost cute!”
“Yah right! I don’t think so!”
Those hateful, scarlet words that poured out of their mouths, describing the pair of earmuffs that covered the scars; that aching pounding that wouldn’t cease until they were gone; finally, ended.
If only they could…no they wouldn’t ever. They wouldn’t ever understand what it felt like, at least, for now. Age is a hilarious thing to the fools who are right now aging. It nearly made me laugh through the pain. The thought that these pretty girls would someday be sitting where
I am now. Friendless. Without a family. Alone, in hospice.
These young ones always thought themselves so clever. They immediately would recognize…my…disability, then scandalize it as if I had any choice. As if I had any possibility to somehow regain my hearing. To somehow make my own mouth spurt words wherein none could come. A well that dries up, only that could understand me now.
It was picturesque in a way though. Dried up. Dried up like the prunes I was forced to eat, what made me blush from the crassness of the thing. Dried up like the land outside of my hospice window. Dried up like my withered old life. Dried up till there was no water, then left to scald and die. Wither. Fade. Then extinguish.
But the fact that so many had to scorn me, me, in my dumbness. In my sense loss. But little did they know my gift. The gift that allowed me to not only see what they are saying, but to See what they were saying.
I could see that young man’s mouth move when he read those poems outside on the gathering lawn. I hid behind my window for hours, watching, as he waited. He always waited to see her, knowing that she could neither see, nor hear, nor feel him. He was reading as if to someone. Practicing. Practicing to recite it to that shriveled old woman who would not hear him. I wished he would visit me secretly. But I knew there was no chance. The nurses here did not know my gift, and I wasn’t about to tell them. They treated me like a dog, a dumb animal that couldn’t understand its master.
I could picture him in there every day, reciting like a school-boy. Unoriginal and afraid, he came off with so much awkwardness. It was strange, put so much effort in to talk to a living corpse.
Yet as he sat there now, there was no awkwardness. He recited believing. His mouth moving distinctly, his words pouring a fountain of Minty greens and Placid blues. They mixed together with the lawn and sunshine, and created a fairy garden for these never dying poems to reside in. I wished I could get out there and live with them too, discussing many dead poet’s poetry. To talk to the young man.
But I couldn’t…at least, not until 4:00 P.M.: walking time.
What was the use of walking time!? What was the use when I felt like walking all the time, felt like escaping this grey world that was now my home. I felt like walking. I couldn’t just sit around waiting till I was “allowed” exercise. Was I a prisoner in a prison camp?! I felt betrayed. How could my own family…another time.
The man in the Fairy lawn left because his grandmother died. She simply disappeared off the face of the world, like the engagement ring on his finger. His dedication, his earnest poetry was not enough. I never saw him again. But he left happy, because he believed his grandmother hear his words. And I believe it.
I do hope he listened to those poems, not only read them.
I missed hearing words, hearing gentle caressing. I missed the opera music my mother was so fond of, playing on repeat throughout the day. I smiled remembering her practicing in the basement when she thought others couldn’t hear. But, we laughed at her then. Hatefully.
What a blessing to be able to hear. I faintly remember that last week. I remember the sound of my mother’s goodnight kiss, the sound it made on my cheek. I remember my father working in the garage as I tried to sleep. Sharp banging, metal on metal. The snores of my baby sister. She was diagnosed with Leukemia the same month of my accident. I didn’t realize, I didn’t appreciate. My life, my family would change.
I was simply alone. No one stood between me and death, no compromiser, no physical hand to comfort. Just the cold fingers of the nurses, the nurses who had inch-long fake nails. My wife: non-existent. My kids: the same. I lived always alone. Now: I die alone.
Fitting.
And these young children try to harass me, without knowing. These living corpses that have their fun, then pass from memory. The children that try to bring my spirit down. But they don’t realize that you can’t get a spirit down when it’s already three-feet into quicksand.
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