As night slowly slips into its later stage a sort of quelled madness takes hold of my soul and causes me to question the nature of all things.
How is it that these street-lamps which line the road Came to fan its photons in such a way as to emit this light which arrests me so?
I think that when we die, the whole world spins a blanket of night over our souls and then we wander…
And all the good ones, the ones we look to, the ones we know we cannot be, become our lampposts. Flecks of luminous clouds that line the path to somewhere we know not
but all that will come. Right now there is this exquisite concrete to contemplate, and the wonder that is the cookie-cutter strip-mall, and the notion that life will seem too short later, when now it seems to stretch ahead unremittingly.
Most of all, there are these street-lamps, those quietly humming sentinels that hold back the dark, and reveal the magnetism of the night.
[responsivevoice rate=".9" voice="US English Female"]
Quick and unexpected
We knew it would come.
I thought it would be harder
But it wasn’t as hard as Pre-Cal.
I thought I would at least cry
But my eyes were as dry as the Sahara.
I don’t remember much about her
Only the nursing home we visited her in.
My sister read the Eulogy
She cried like a girl after her first heartbreak.
I should have cried.
I got choked up
But no tears would come
It was like the Texas heat burned them from my eyes.
Quick and unexpected
We knew it would come.
I thought it would be harder
But it wasn’t as hard as Pre-Cal.
I thought I would at least cry
But my eyes were as dry as the Sahara.
I don’t remember much about her
Only the nursing home we visited her in.
My sister read the Eulogy
She cried like a girl after her first heartbreak.
I should have cried.
I got choked up
But no tears would come
It was like the Texas heat burned them from my eyes.
I made my way down the Pacific Coast Highway, going about ninety five. That was the only thing I liked about California. Christ, I missed New York. I had no real idea where I was going, but Lucy told me to stop when I saw the pier. What pier? I pulled up to a small lot right off the highway nearly clipping the old wooden sign that read PARKING in giant red block letters. I whipped into a spot and shoved a five dollar bill into the over-priced meter. I got out of the car, and my mood soured as soon as my Burberry wing-tips hit the sand.
I followed along the Pacific until I hit a huge party, only a few hundred feet from the pier. I looked around in the firelight till I saw Lucy. She’s drunk. There she was, laughing herself to tears, sitting in a lawn chair with a red Solo cup in her hand. Seriously? Some guy next to her whispered something in her ear, and she almost fell over laughing. I felt something inside of me burn. I hated feeling possessive or controlling, but she made me move out here, and now she’ll have nothing to do with me. The last four months of our relationship flashed before me as I stood there watching her, halting at specific instances of her neglect. In what world was this okay? I’m here working my ass off so my slut of a girlfriend can get shitfaced non-stop and party with random douchebags she meets in her classes? I decided then that she had only used me to get here. I was the means to her end. My fury all but consumed me.
I stormed over to Lucy, and locked eyes with the guy sitting next to her, willing him to give me a reason to unleash the wrath resting just below the surface. He defensively lifted up both hands, one still holding a beer.
“Woah, bro.”
“Back off.” I barked.
He glared at me for a moment before turning back to the party, ready to pounce on his next drunken victim.
“Get up, Lucy.” She looked up at me and smiled a stupid grin. She then looked down on the watch she was supposed to be wearing, but there was nothing there besides a bad tan line. I can’t believe she lost that watch. Second anniversary present.
“Geez, you’re early, I think.”
“I’m two hours late. I had a deposition. I told you to take a cab if I was more than fifteen minutes late.”
“Well then you’re late!” she shouted at me, trying to stand up straight as an effort to confront me. Half the people around the bonfire were now staring at us. Brilliant.
“Let’s go.” The words slipped out of my mouth in a low grumble. She burped in response to this, reeking of cheap beer and cigarettes.
“I’ll go when I’m ready to go, pal.” She poked me in the chest and stumbled backward. Unable to keep her balance, she flopped back into the lawn chair and then began to chuckle.
“Come on,” I said, grabbing her upper arm, trying to pull her up from the flimsy seat.
“I don’t want to go yet!” she screamed at me.
“Lucy, please.”
The drunk surfer guy made a comeback, and came within two inches of my face. He, too, reeked of beer and cigarettes, but his red face and swagger made me think he was looking for a fight.
“Look, bro, if the lady doesn’t want to go, she doesn’t have to.”
“Look, bro, she’s drunk and needs to sleep this off. Back off.” I was careful not to touch him; if I threw the first punch, then I was liable. He swayed, and I watched him draw a fist. Just as he swung, I dodged. He fell forward, hard, and rolled dangerously close to the fire. Lucy chuckled, then grabbed for my forearm. I pulled her up from the chair, and we made our way back to the car.
Once I got her safely buckled into the passenger’s seat, I slammed her door shut and stalked around the front of the car and into the driver’s seat. I shoved the keys into the ignition but paused before starting the car. I fixed my eyes on Lucy who had her head tiled back ever so slightly, and her eyes closed. I drank in the beautiful, peaceful sight that she was, and felt my temper simmer down.
I loathed what she was wearing because she was always showing too much skin. Part of me felt like she only loved California because it was here that she was allowed to embrace her hippie nature. Her feet were bare save for her butterfly toe-ring and hot pink nail polish. She never brought shoes to the beach. My eyes ran up her tanned, slender legs. Accentuating her small breasts was strapless bikini top covered in brightly colored flowers. She was always a sight for sore eyes, but I hated thinking about all the eyes that soaked her up the way I did.
I could feel the anger begin to bubble again. I reached over and placed a hand on her bare knee, startling her. The waves of her hazelnut hair bounced as her head popped up and her body tensed. I watched her scan her surroundings, relaxing as soon as she landed on me. She leaned her head back against the headrest and gently smiled at me, the haze behind her eyes had started to subside. Two small hands wrapped around the one I had on her knee.
Sisters 2 by: Nancy Hines, Graphite on Paper – 2017
In 1987, it was cute for me to squeal At the funny commercial on TV. In 1987, it was adorable when I would grab My mother around the waist and squeeze. In 1987, my little sister Worshipped the very ground I walked on. When I would squeal She would yelp. Now she always looks Like she’s trying to figure me out.
It feels like she’s the big sister now. She chastises me. She directs me. She lectures me. She guides me. I am always thankful And I wonder Why our roles switched.
Somehow I got stuck. I roar when something funny happens. I wear flowers in my hair And jelly shoes on my feet. I walk into the room Expecting them to tell me how pretty I am. They act like it’s not appropriate To expect such things.
I feel them looking at me. This is funny So why aren’t they laughing? Why do they look at me Like I’ve done something wrong? Why are they speaking to me Like I am twelve years old? My daughter is twelve, I am thirty-five.
Something is wrong But I am too confused to see it. I close my eyes and tune in To the steady voices that bring me peace. The ocean waves. The sound of a mother’s heartbeat From within the belly. The jangling of an ice cream truck. All followed by the dependable, friendly voices.
You’re just not laughing hard enough. Laugh louder. You should rearrange those books. Prove your worth. Show them how much they want you here. They’re not acknowledging you! Ask them! Ask them if they love you! You look sad now. Let’s be sad together. Go sit over against that wall. Draw your knees up to your chest. That’s OK if that tear falls. Maybe they will comfort you. That didn’t work, let’s go back to happy. You just weren’t excited enough before. They want to celebrate. They just aren’t motivated yet. Turn on some music! That’s it, let’s dance!
I am trying. If I just hold on, My happiness will catch. They will all join in And it will be like 1987 When daddy would put a record on And we would all dance.
Hi Mr. Rattle Snake. Look at you so coiled up shaking your tail with red diamonds on your back and raising your head sitting in the fork in the golden road. You frighten me. Please don’t bite me. I am with child.
I am trying to go to my Uncle’s house down this golden road. Will you let me pass, please? Could you go bother the mean old man on the hill? He has a heart of coal. Please don’t bite me, for I am with child.
I turned around to go back where I came from to get my friend. I came back and you were gone. I heard a scream and a shot right after it.
Ma’am, I got that mean old man for you. He shot my friend, Mr. King Snake.
Sarah was a strange and unreasonable girl. When she was born the doctors said she was an ocean; infinite and undying with jellyfish in her veins and sharks in her belly. Parts of her were freezing; her hands and feet were icebergs. Her heart though, beat so fast that sometimes the skin on her chest would boil. When her mother gave birth she had almost died, the strain on her body was almost too much to bear. Sarah came out screaming.
She was always screaming, although as she grew this became a subtle scream. One you couldn’t hear but you could see if you looked hard enough. Sarah was always slightly shaking, as if she was going to erupt. Childhood was impossible for her. People would stare and gawk. She possessed a body she felt she didn’t deserve. She was a woman at such a young age and when she thought about her life she smiled. It was a dark grin.
When she grew up she learned about crushes and crushing and being crushed by boys. This was a revelation to her, she felt so powerful when making someone fall in love. She felt powerful taking it all away from them. These simple boys would meet her and try to conquer her but they would drown. Every time they would drown thinking they were mightier, thinking they could maybe take her over. She felt their prayers, their desire to have her, even for a moment. When she touched them she made their lives worth living, and as she took their breath away their last words were always “thank you”.
She felt the lonesomeness around her and took it in. Loneliness infected everyone who wanted her; it was palpable in their voices. She needed to feel like a real person, not a myth told to children to prove a higher power. She met a boy, Oren, and fell love with his eyes which burned like sunlight, giant and brighter than anything else. He was whole without her, and she clung to him for that.
Oren had a tongue that spat fire like a volcano and when he spoke people fell backwards. He was so smart, this boy who was fire. Oren knew everything to know and that’s why the girl who was an ocean fell in love. Being around him made Sarah open up, which at first made her feel as though she was slowly becoming real.
Sarah was so excited to find humanness inside of her, and she owed it to Oren. Idealistic and ignorant, she wanted him too much and closed in on him too fast. Every time he spoke she moved closer to him, slowly putting his fire out. He faded away. Although destruction was in her nature, she felt a wickedness breed inside of her that she had never felt before.
Sarah’s body, an anomaly, became heavy and solemn; she was swollen with guilt and disgust. She was eternal, the doctors said. Her parents constantly reminded her of this. She could never be happy because she was forever. She patiently repeated this advice: “Don’t get too close. Don’t get too close.” She chanted this rhythmically morning after morning.
Stronger than the earth itself, stronger than the Sun or any other planet, Sarah was a miracle. “God given!” her mother would say. “Oh you’re my gift, my proudest achievement”. Sarah resented this praise. The girl who was an ocean, with jellyfish in her veins, feared only one thing. Because she had ruined all love and warmth which was so generously given to her, she was terrified of losing herself in someone else. She was terrified of affection in any form. The ocean is a wild thing, this girl a wild woman.
She knew how to destroy and while she pined for normalcy, she wasn’t born with flaxen hair and a mild smile. She had teeth and nails, she was hard. She knew too much to be a stupid girl who tore flowers from the ground to put in her hair. Sarah feared only one thing. This one thing caught up with her in the form of a friend, the first she had ever had.
Kiri resembled a hummingbird and behaved like one too. She wasn’t beautiful, or a force; she was like air-simply necessary. This friend guided the ocean along for quite some time. She never asked for a thank you, or a sorry. The ocean tried and tried to bring her friend down, but never once did Kiri relent.
The hummingbird girl, with tangled hair and twisted bones, was glued together by permanence. She didn’t believe in the idea of true death, the kind without continuation, no matter how much evidence had been presented to her. When her grandmother died she simply said “And soon she’ll be again”. Her family was exhausted by her optimistic insanity and she felt the heat from their frustration. It burned her badly, so she moved away and found an ocean.
Kiri was certain of two things: One, that God existed. Two, that there was no such thing as a single person. “Everyone is everyone and anyone who will ever be has already been” she explained, “How do you not see it?” As confidently crazy as she was, Kiri spoke to everyone about what she believed in. They would smile an uncommitted smile, the kind they gave to missionaries at their doorsteps. She was used to this smile; it was the only kind she saw from other people. Hers was different. When she grinned in the mirror it was all teeth. She felt like this was the biggest difference between herself and others. They would say otherwise.
When this hummingbird found her ocean, she saw something more than just a violent, angry girl. Kiri saw hope extending its arms. Sarah tried telling this flighty, wiry woman that she was unable to get close. “I’ll drown you” the girl who was an ocean said. She stated it simply, and then walked away. The little hummingbird girl flew after her, sensing something so remarkable about her. Not that she was beautiful, or strong, or anything anyone else had ever admired about her. This simple, hummingbird girl saw something more. She saw eternity in her eyes. The hummingbird found absolute proof of her own beliefs.
Kiri smiled her overwhelming smile.“What’s it like to never end?”
Sarah answered her tone lighter than usual. She was not too hopeful but the spark of being understood felt like dry heat and made her skin warm.
“When sensible people say there are fates worse than death, I think I’m what they’re talking about.”
Kiri was no longer smiling, but Sarah flashed her dark grin.
I often wonder at what point will feel my age like a wave of realization will take me over and adulthood will consume me.
But it gulps me up and spits me out tells me I’m not ready, says I am to blame though it doesn’t want me yet either.
I’m sure everyone around me feels their age the numbers go up, but I stay unchanged.
I am a woman, though I wait for my growth spurt to surprise me, check for my cheekbones to show, wonder when my breasts will come in. yet on paper my age calls me a woman.
I wonder at what point I will feel the sudden change all the other women must have felt it.
I should be drinking coffee as my harsh steps click down the halls, fast walking to meetings in which my words are jotted down and considered, power in my stance and my suit.
Something must be wrong with me I see my peers get married, have babies as bite my nails and watch Netflix
Maybe if I act different, wear heels and dress with purpose, drink wine to ease my stresses or give up my Luke Cage obsession…
On second thought, I’d rather stay happy I don’t care to feel my age.
How much have I had to drink? Pour me another shot. The burn of my throat soothes me. The fire that trickles down into my belly, The only illumination In this cave of a body. I crave the warmth within the bottle. Sucking on one every night before bed, A lullaby I cannot live without. A lack of innocence evident Thanks to the runs in my pantyhose And stains on my dress. Never mind this disheveled hair, Someone take my keys, Pay no attention to these bloodshot eyes. Does anyone have any mouthwash? Tape my cheeks To keep this grin wide. I’ve found the most compassionate people Are the strangers I meet in public restrooms, And peace can be found at the back of a toilet. Drop to my knees. Salvation is for the desperate, But I pray anyway. To grow to be as resilient as my liver, And I pray for stronger poison to quiet the demons, Who threaten to devour what’s left of my humanity.
The doors to the subway slide open. A horde of nameless, faceless, people makes their way to their predestined seats. I’m the only one not in a hurry. By chance, I find myself sitting alone in the furthest corner from the entrance. This has to be the first time in my life I’ve ever not been in a hurry, who cares? I’m not going anywhere. I pull my headphones out of my pocket and start my least favorite playlist. The cold glass feels like an electric current as I rest my forehead on the window nearest me. I check my watch, and it’s later than I hoped. It’ll be at least an hour ride back to my house, including the walk up West 32nd street. My eyes drift from my watch to the spot at the base of my wrist. The numbers “7665” are marked in a color just a shade lighter than the rest of my skin. For about 7635 days it was easy to ignore. Right now, those numbers might as well be on fire.
When your number is about to be up, it puts a lot of things in perspective.
I always assumed that my parents cried when they found out. What did the Doctor say? “Your son has exactly 20 years of life in him, and then, who knows?” It’s hard not to be bitter towards all these people around me that have twice the amount of time I do. It’s so unfair it makes me sick. Right in front of me on this very train, there’s a drunk couple. They’re having the time of their lives. There’s an old woman sitting alone to my right, it’s kind of funny: the word old will never apply to me. I won’t be around long enough.
I look down at my phone and there’s no notifications. I pull my headphones out of my ears and can’t help but laugh. They seemed like a good idea. I thought I would put them in and drown my thoughts out with loud angry music. Right now it seems like a waste of time. I start listening to ambient noise aboard the train. It appears that the drunk couple has just left their coworkers wake. The soon to be deceased host of the party got so drunk he couldn’t finish his speech. One of his friends had to pry the note cards out of his hands. All the cards said were “Lying fart, recycled hardon, and free drinks.” They’ve been laughing about this for the past ten minutes.
Coincidentally I also just left my own wake. This is the first and last I have ever attended one. From what I have heard the average attendance is about seventy people. Ranging from family, coworkers, neighbors, and friends. This number shrinks and grows depending on how long your number happens to be. I didn’t get drunk, or pass out. I told everyone thanks for coming and just ended up hiding in my parents bathroom. I couldn’t even look at half the people. They would come up so oblivious and congratulate me. That’s sadistic. I notice a few people that couldn’t look me in the eye. I always wondered what a wake would be like, it seems natural that the day before a person dies that a celebration would be held in their honor. Now that I’ve just attended my own, it seems extremely unnatural.
No one with as little time as I do really likes to talk about it. Least of all people was me. This is the first time I’ve even really allowed myself to think about it. Death has always been at my fingertips, so to speak. It could be much worse. I once heard that in China if you’re going to die before you’re 21 they put you in a work camp until the day you die. In Sweden it’s the opposite, everyone with a high number of their wrist works until they’re past 8000 days, then the government gives everyone whatever they want until their last meal. I guess that’s a good reimbursement for forced labor.
I never really questioned America’s structure; it seemed fair, for the most part. Everyone privileged enough to live past 21 is required to go to school, get a job, and suffer in the “real world”. Any number lower than that and it’s up to whomever it may concern. Some people say I wasted my time going to school and having a job. I fought tooth and nail with my parents to be educated. This is something that I’ve actually thought about that a lot. Would I have been better off coasting? Drifting along aimlessly, collecting wellness of life checks until my wake. No is the poetic answer. I may have done the same monotonous work as people that will live twice and three times my age, but at least I can read.
But, then again how much of a difference did it make? An education, a job, late nights and early mornings are hardly a participation prize. Through all of that suffering, my life has amounted to an hourlong wake. Inside of a depressing room of about nine people that were either too nice to say no to an invitation from my persistent parents. The alternative being a group of people too oblivious to understand that these sort of things shouldn’t be celebrated.
At the time, it made sense. I don’t have an eternity to live life. I wanted to be as normal and carefree as everyone else appeared. Now I could careless about if I wasted my time, instead I wonder how much of my time I’ve wasted. It’s funny all the small things I’ve come to regret. All I wanted to do was fit in and be treated normally, but feeling human has always been a struggle. I’ve spent my whole life walking a trail that leads straight to the edge of a cliff, with everyone pretending I’m never going to arrive and the seconds before I get there, they celebrate my short life with a boring wake.
It is at this moment my mind looks back. I can’t help but remember the most irrelevant things. My first and only guitar. The sound it has made in my closet for the past three years is better than anything I ever produced with it. My neighbor’s annoying orange cat. It would always scratch on my window in the middle of the night. I never knew what it was looking for but I guess it thought I had it. Amidst all the random memories my train of thought derails. It’s her.
It’s always been her. My heart was ignited in my chest the first time I saw her. Her image branded in my mind, the sight of her standing there was breathtaking. We were young, I saw her from a car I wasn’t driving. Through the rain I saw her figure, and it was swaying like a defiant candle in the pouring rain. She was so alive, and at the time I couldn’t begin to understand the correlation. She stood five feet or less away from the dry and covered bus stop. From where she danced she was five feet away from having dry socks, a place to sit, and worst of all, being safe. To her, it’s the small battles that changed the war. She inspired me. Right now, more than ever.
The things that have made me feel the most alive, they weren’t monotonous or safe. They were the things I knew the least about, or maybe even feared. At first, anyways. In all my life I have never felt more alive than being with her. That made me feel human and like I was a part of something. The fear, excitement, anticipation, and eventually the familiarity. It all came from a place of mystery that grew into intimacy.
Before now, maybe even right before this very second, I would have regretted meeting her. I used to look back on having my heartbroken and wallow in self pity. Now that I’m at the end of my rope it seems like having a broken heart is the only thing that makes me feel human. Like I accomplished something in the real world. I guess that’s what pain is for, it’s a reminder to keep fighting. Few things hurt more than being told you won’t live long enough to be worth falling in love with.
Somewhere there might be a place where the grand mystery is when and how a person dies. I’m finally realizing that my entire life is the mystery. Just because I’ve known when my time is coming, doesn’t mean my life was predetermined. I don’t know what is going to happen after tomorrow. That’s terrifying but also oddly comforting. My whole life I’ve been defined by knowing when I was going to die. Society focuses so closely on when it’s going to happen, that I don’t think many people focus on what they’re doing, or how they’re living their life until that day comes. I may only have a few hours left until my time comes, but I think that’s enough to make a difference.
The train makes its way to my stop. I pick up my things and head to the doors. The old lady sitting to my right tells me I’ve left something in my seat. It’s a Hallmark card one of my coworkers gave me at my wake earlier tonight. I can’t help but laugh at the idea of a card with kittens on it that is so specifically tailored to my situation. I leave the train stop and look Westward towards my home. Folding the card away in my pocket, I head East.
