Post by NotSoPerfect on Feb 28, 2007 22:45:27 GMT -6
It’s been so long…
…and tin cans and string for years
is all that we’ve known.
Could it be, you’re really here?
‘Cause my eyes are open,
and everything still moves in slow-motion
breathless and blue and
behind your eyes, the sea…
…oceans of light envelop me
…but things can’t be as they seem.
I’m so far from home –
this must be another dream
but my eyes are open…
Wow, it’s windy outside. The bitter breeze kicks sand into my face, mocking me for retuning. I glance over my shoulder; a vague light from the small building emanates in my direction but is far too subtle to illuminate anything. To my other side, the cold but gentle Atlantic laps at the shore. I glance up, up to the stars. The sky is coated with a thin, milky layer of wispy clouds. The crescent moon fights to make its white light break through the wispy barrier.
I shiver briefly. Even in September, the chill from the Arctic is rapidly approaching. My hands, which hug themselves inside my jacket pockets, clench the rough but then material, bringing it closer to my body. I pick up my pace, struggling through the white sand. As I walk, the light from the town grows dimmer and that encourages me. I can see the shape of the jetty taking form. The massive black rocks tower over the smooth, rolling waves.
He’s there.
He is crouched over the farthest rock, tempting the treacherous but calm Atlantic. I’ve seen it take victims before, even on nights like tonight. I don’t think he can hear me, but my steps slow anyway in an effort to be inconspicuous. I am not ready to face him, not yet. In a few more seconds, then maybe.
I stop, try to catch my breath, lose myself in a childhood memory.
We used to play on this very jetty. I would knock on his door after the bus dropped us off, smiling sweetly at his mom even though she was far too enthralled in her own world to notice that her son was there. He would swiftly exit his house, and we would take two of the beach cruisers from his backward without any words. He would hang his backpack, meticulously packed with snacks and toys to sustain us, from the handlebars. One time I asked him why he didn’t just keep it on his back. He told me that the lopsided balance of weight made it easier for him to concentrate on pedaling. I didn’t understand, but I nodded my agreement and never asked again.
We would ride the mile to the beach. Neither of our parents knew where we were. They were usually too busy to care, anyway. We liked to hide at the jetty. We had two tin cans, held together by string, which we used to communicate while we explored those same, ominous black rocks day after day until long after the sun had gone down.
When we got home, my mom never noticed I had been gone. His mom didn’t either, but his dad did and let him know forcefully, as I gathered from the various bruises he hid under long sleeves and smiles. We both know, but we never talked about it. Only about the ocean, the shells, the taste of salt. We watched the horseshoe crabs flock to the shore by the hundreds during mating season and we fed the seagulls our peanut butter and jelly crusts.
Then one day, he couldn’t come out anymore. The next day, my mom told me that it was our turn to move. Living on a military base, one always knows that the time to move is approaching, but you learn to ignore it. If you don’t, how can you live? We go through life and our only true need is to connect with someone else, and with the loss of those connections imminent, our only choices are to suffer in solitude, needs unmet, or to pretend that day is too far in the distance to be seen with concern.
Ten years have passed.
“It’s been so long…”
He turns slowly, reluctantly, and the white light shows a flicker in his eyes, but not of surprise. He opens his mouth to speak, and inhales sharply, then pauses a moment before he lets out a sigh. He climbs to his feet and jumps down from the rocks. He approaches me, and I wait, but he stops a few feet away. We both turn towards the ocean. Neither of us speaks, but words aren’t necessary here.
The ocean crashes before us, chipping at our silence and breaking us down. Nothing sees through pretension like the Atlantic by moonlight. You become black and white, like a movie, stripped of your expensive shoes and impressive resume. Blondes become brunettes and short hair holds as much value as long hair. Smiles fade, frowns disappear, and all that’s left of what we mold ourselves into by day is who we are. The water does not discriminate; it takes the young and old, the poor and rich, and all in-between.
“I’m sorry I left,” I finally say.
“Don’t be,” is his reply. “You came back.”