J wishes she had a story to tell. Already, she has several scenes in her head if she ever were to make a movie, but no storyline. Not yet.
Me, I have no scenes and no storyline. But what I do have are short
anecdotal pieces, based on fragmented flashbacks from back then and
uneven flashes of now. I have letters I put down, and those letters
become words, grow into a sentence, stretching out into sentences
before flourishing into lines. But they all mean nothing. They’re like
disjointed scripts running through my fingers down to lead on paper,
and it’s amassed to this pile of words words words that remain just
that: words.
It’d be great if I could make out what the running theme is in this
pile because that way, I might have something to work on and thrash out
some art of sense. My problem is I take too much to specific details
sometimes. A look, a gesture, the setting of an empty building, a
shadow on a brick wall, a falling leaf…
So I’m left with descriptions of fiddling things that bear little importance to most, and command the interest of few.
The only reason why I hold on to these words, as insignificant as they
may be, is because of how I felt when I set them down, and how I feel
upon unearthing them from the nooks and crannies of my room, or upon
rediscovering them wedged in between pages of lecture notes or
forgotten books. That evocative power on paper is just too tempting for
me to let them go, to burn them and let the wind carry the ashes away.
J has scenes, I have words. Maybe one day she’ll have her movie and
I’ll have my book, and maybe the world can make sense of it all even
more than we give them credit for.
—————
The first time they wheeled me in, I was
struck by how steely and bare the room looked. The drapes were drawn
wide open, but only a dull, grey light filtered through. She helped me
off the wheelchair, and helped me climb into the prepared bed, with
its eerily clean, ghostly-white sheets. After I was settled, with
forms filled out and signatures given, she promptly left the room. I
lay on my back, staring up at the ceiling before finally glancing out
the window beyond the heavy drapes. I could make out a flock of birds
flying high out in the distance. Bare branches hung limp, as though
withered and discouraged by the dreary evening. The sheets felt so
crisp and cold against my skin, and that chill carried on down to my
bones…that was one feeling that never shook off the whole time I was
to stay in that room - how cold everything seemed. I felt as though the
walls were drilling accusatory looks into me. I felt alone.
The second time, they moved me to another room. My sister stayed with me then. It was as if she knew.
One time she climbed in next to me after they had given me the
nebulizer treatment. We lay not speaking, listening to the pitterpat of
rain outside. It was one of those gentle showers, lying somewhere
between a drizzle and a thunderstorm. The room we were in was bathed in
a dim, soft light. Pretty soon, my sister fell asleep. I stayed awake, listened to a little music, and Natalie Walker’s Waking Dream came on.
If I could have one soundtrack for just that one scene, that would be it.
A loved one close by, steady breathing marking her presence, little balls of rain drops trickling down the foggy glass window outside, the stillness of the room and its objects within, and the settling silence and calm that permeated everything around us.
At that very moment, everything fit perfectly.
Enough said here.
