Lucid Waking

Archive for the ‘Nonfiction Prose’ Category

Reflections on a Girl

        Exactly a year ago, I had been sitting in my high school’s student commons when heard the news that a good friend of mine had passed away. She was seventeen years old and died from an ordinary flu. I was numb, although I didn’t know it. We had to perform—by obligation and personal necessity—at a vocal jazz festival in a city several hours south of us the next morning. I pushed away my tears to be stronger for the group, though I felt that I was the only one making a concerted effort to put forth as much positive energy to the audience. It’s hard to make an audience want to get up and dance when you’re noticing that hole in your heart and your midst.
        At the funeral, I cried. I didn’t want to cry as much as I did, but everything came tumbling out from places in my soul I didn’t know existed. Afterwards, I felt numb again. I don’t think this was all acceptance, a part of me still tears up when I think about all her opportunities lost. Occasionally I’ll find myself thinking existentially about life and death and whether or not I am doing justice in how I remember her.
        Today, I needed a moment of reflection. I cut a long piece of blue ribbon and set out for the gardens on campus. I reached the carillon and started down the hill behind it; I picked a tree that felt like the right one, and tied the ribbon around it. Then I slowly walked back to campus, in a roundabout fashion. My path took me down the canal in the back of campus and then up a set of stairs to where the academic buildings sat stoically. I watched the reflection in the canal and the sun between the trees. Part of me wished she could have the opportunity to enjoy her own experience in college—probably that same part that wondered whether or not I was doing enough to preserve the sanctity of her memory. As I watched the geese fly noisily from their perch on the water, past the bridge and into the sky, I resolved that it didn’t matter what I did as long as I was satisfied. She no longer cared and even if she did, would never know my thoughts. For however long that ribbon stays tied to the tree, I’ll be happy. Thinking back, I shouldn’t have tied it in a knot before the bow, so that the birds could easily untie it and use it in their nests, but letting go is really what this whole day is about.
        I don’t think we—myself and her other friends—could possibly forget what a beautiful, unique person she was, but I only let her guide me to do my best and to live each of my days up to my full potential instead of dwelling on the tragedy of her death. We never know what the future brings, but we can make the best of the present while we can. Even though I know she’ll never read this I have to say: Rest in peace, Marie. We all miss you.

Author’s comments on post 352: Obviously, self-explanatory since it is biographical. Originally I was going to write an ode, but I only got so far before I had to give up. This came out much more freely. I wish she could have gotten her wish of being an opera singer, but I suppose my bass and I will just have to do that for her. I have something more hopeful and interesting planned for tomorrow, but today, I had to get this off my chest.

Reach

        I needed to be alone. The day was warm and sunny, as was expected for an afternoon in late August. Needing my space, I found my feet leading me towards nearby gardens. I forced myself to slow down and take deep breaths and notice the dappled sunlight, the khaki green of the water in the reflection pond, and the bright orange fish under the surface. Mosquitoes flitted everywhere, but I ignored them and carried on, passing other insects that I thought might sting me, land on me, or otherwise make me uncomfortable. I made sure to note the damselflies and butterflies and flowers that were in bloom all the while pressing forward and away from all the chaos behind me and telling myself to just breathe.
        I needed to think and sit, so I found a bench in the shade farthest away from entrance to the gardens. I didn’t want to be found or bothered. I just wanted to breathe, maybe cry, and think. Just stop.
        I watched people go by and noted the various colors in the garden: shades of green, pink, orange, and blue. Everything was vibrant and warm and so calm. So very calm. I notice a woman pass me who seemed to be carrying something. From far away it looked like a baby but as she approached, I noticed it was just a lump of towels. She looked much older as she approached and I could see her braided hair was gray. She was long and thin, wearing bathing suit shorts and a bikini top.
        “Excuse me,” she said to me, “Can you help me? My bathing suit came untied and I have arthritis so I can’t tie it…”
        “Sure,” I said warmheartedly. Generally, I feel better after being nice to people and having felt pretty bad going into the garden, I thought a little kindness wouldn’t hurt.
        “Once upon a mattress,” she said noting my tee shirt. “Were you in it?”
        “No,” I answered as I tie a bow with the ribbons in back. “It’s my mom’s.”
        “Oh,” she said quietly before asking, “Are you a student at the University?”
        “Yes.”
        “Wonderful! It’s a very good institution. What’s your major?”
        “Music performance,” I answered, thinking that as long as I didn’t give her my name, a little information wouldn’t hurt.
        “So I might see you,” she said excitedly. “I go to every concert.”
        “Good,” I said smiling.
        “I love their symphony. Actually, there’s a lot of art around the city. The Fringe festival is this week—have you heard about it?”
        I shook my head.
        “All sorts of local artists come and perform. My favorite was this—well, this one performer started out on a farm milking cows and one day he told his dad he couldn’t do that the rest of his life and that he was going to be a clown. And he’s good at it. He has a routine…oh gosh I don’t remember what it’s called…well, anyway. It’s hilarious. And I saw this absolutely amazing singing group perform music written by a local composer. Oh, I’ve never heard anything so beautiful. And there was this mime—and I’ve seen Marcel Marceau when I lived in Austin. It was his last show, actually. But anyway, this mime was amazing. He mimed out the entire story of the Twelve Swans, which I don’t know very well, but you could follow along, anyway. You absolutely have to go.”
        “Sounds good,” I said.
        “But there’s also the art museum just down the street, which is great. I used to go there all the time with my daughter. She actually ended up going to Ball State, which was a huge challenge for her, but she loved it. She’s done with school now and engaged…I miss her so much. I call her up but…the last time we talked we ended up fighting. She went to get her hair done and I don’t know why she…I mean, it’s fine if that’s what she wants to do, but I don’t like being with all the chemicals and stuff. But I asked her why she was spending all the time getting her hair done when she could be doing tennis and…well, it was the wrong thing to say.
        “Excuse me,” she continued as she took off her sunglasses to rub her left eye. “I just had eye surgery this morning and my eye is really sore. I went swimming in the White River—do you know where that is?”
        I shook my head.
        “Its around that way. Oh, they had to remove twenty-five pieces of debris from my eye and…ugh…don’t go swimming in that river…I had five inches cut off from my hair because its so polluted, but anyway, my daughter was a very good tennis player. She played against the number one player in the state and won and her high school tennis team went from the number one spot when she was playing to number eleven once she left. I mean, she was really good…and I don’t know why she stopped. You know, I should call her up tonight and explain that I don’t mean to rule her life I just want her to do tennis because…”
        “She loves it.”
        “It gives her joy.”
        The woman paused while the sound of drums from the marching band at campus sounded through the fresh air.
        “I’ve been so lonely lately,” she continued, “that I considered renting my room out to University students who are really serious, you know? And can use a quiet place to study and work. I don’t know if you’d be interested—where would you look for that sort of thing?”
        “Well, there are bulletin boards around campus—”
        “That’s what I thought. I had a dance major come for an interview because she was interested, but she ended up living somewhere closer to campus.” She sighed. “Well, it was good talking to you; what’s your name?”
        I stood up and told her.
        “That’s a very pretty name. I’m Coleen and I hope to see you at the next concert.”
        “Ok, I hope to see you then,” I answered as she and I walked opposite ways.
        As I made my way back to campus, I watched the ground in front of me, thinking. I hadn’t gotten as much meditation as I wanted, but I felt less lost, scared and sad leaving the garden than I did going in. I realized that this woman just wanted to talk and wanted someone to listen because she had a lot of things to think about herself. While I was longing to go back home to my parents, she was longing for her daughter to come back home and live with her. I realized that this lost and lonely feeling I had was mutual. And through talking to me, she figured out how to make herself feel better and through listening, I felt better because I had a purpose; my day had purpose. I made someone feel better about herself and her life. I brought a little sunshine to her day which, proportionally, brought some into mine. I felt like I mattered and that my work would pay off because not everyone in the world is shallow and some just need a little love.
        Going back into the hectic, chaotic, and whirlwind campus for more orientation was draining and a little frustrating, but I felt like my day was worthwhile. Even though the weeks ahead will be busy and crazy and frustrating, I know I’ll make it through on my own, just like Colleen does every day of her life.

Author’s Note on post 335: This is based on something that happened to me today. I say based because, unfortunately, I don’t remember everything she said and I left some things that happened out of the story because they didn’t have relevance to the point I was making. I tried to make this a quick piece of prose with its merits and I think I succeeded.

There’s More to Life

            Kari was writing out the list of girls in each class with her mechanical pencil, her nose a few inches from the paper. The candle on the desk was lit, but the smell was barely noticeable in the cold room. She sat up straighter and put the finished class list in the pile of finished registers. She re-did the ponytail in her platinum blond hair before starting on another list. She had a muscular frame, but she was thin and very tall for a ballerina. The phone rang and she answered it. She was concise and professional in the answers she gave on the phone. A few girls or their mothers came up to her and waited as she walked through the procedures of the dance studio she worked at. Smiling, she took a check or two, joked a bit with the regular girls or their mothers and then stood up in her fuzzy slippers to get ready for her ballet class.
            Another dancer came into the studio, ready for class except for her jeans. She announced that she hurt her knee during cheerleading practice and couldn’t dance in class that day. Kari turned to her and started asking questions about how long ago the injury was and whether or not she went to a doctor. She took the girl’s answers into account and told her to wear a brace while putting a heating pad on it before she went to bed. The girl thanked her and sat down in a chair, while she waited. Kari had responded the same way when I had sprained my foot and always reminded me to take it easy. She told the girl the same thing as the dancer sat down.
            I was extremely early to class as I always was on a Monday so I was watching some of the classes through the window. While there was a lull in the office work she had to do, Kari came over to join me.
            “What’s up, Bri?” she asked me.
            I told her I was tired.
            “How’s school?”
            There was a lot I could tell her, but I just said it was fine. Not the absolute truth, but not a downright lie, either.
            “That’s good.” She went back to watch the girls perform across the dance floor; a few had faulty technique, but they worked hard to fix it.
            I told her how much I hated the emphasis they put on college in addition to all the schoolwork in honors classes. She told me that she remembered what it was like when she was in high school. “I was in honors classes, too and I ended up not going to college,” she said with a smile. “And I’m fine and love my job.”

Help! I’m Drowning!

            It’s raining. The kind of rain that knocks you down with the pounding on your roof making everything so loud, you can’t hear yourself think. She sat down on the bed and tried furtively to read. She couldn’t comprehend the words and she threw the book down annoyed and faced her computer. He stomach growled lightly as the rain started to die away to a faint roar in the background. Still too loud to read, but at a better volume. Thunder cuts the background noise as a solo in this frightening orchestration. She’s annoyed with her stomach. Too much to do and too little time, now. That’s why I can’t update this week, but we’ll see how tomorrow goes.