I ask myself why I keep deceiving myself into believing I like line dancing. “Toe heel step! Toe heel step!” On a loop, for thirty minutes straight. Oddly enough, it reminds me of doing math homework as a kid. I spin in circles, getting my toes and heels stepped on, And see the pretty blond girl Who dragged me here Smile for the first time in a month. I smile back. Toe heel step. Tow heal step!
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Here for you today, But not for you, For you, Unlike it, Aren’t forever.
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You have no choice, but to age like dairy. Though the choice is yours, to age like milk, or cheese.
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I don’t think that’s the right question to ask. I didn’t stay. I never stay. I always have to make the mistake of leaving. Maybe some day I’ll learn and make better choices. It took me a while to learn to come back. I’ll tell you why I come back.
I mess up often, so badly that I don’t believe I’ll ever feel well again. It’s like stubbornly running at a wall, believing that you won’t get injured. But you always crash, face first, into brick. You’re a little dizzy, you step back and stumble onto the floor and look up to see that the brick wall extends to the sky and horizons. The daunting red looks over you and you know you won’t ever get past it. You’re afraid to turn around because you’re certain that people are waiting for you to catch their eye before they start laughing at you, that the silence behind your, that seems so calm, is simply a cruel joke waiting to happen. That fear overwhelms you and when met with that impassible brick wall, all you can think is that you’d have to spend your days staring at red. You can’t help but scream. You keep screaming and crying out of the fear that whatever comes afterwards, you wouldn’t be able to handle. Maybe they’d laugh at you, how embarrassing. Maybe there’s no one there to laugh at you and you were alone all along, how lonely.
Eventually, when you are done throwing your tantrum, you hear a voice call out to you, not particularly loudly, “Did you hurt yourself?” And you remember what it was that you were running from.
It takes you a minute to answer. How could you possibly afford to lose your pride? It’s a silly question to ask at this point —you just ran into a wall, how much pride could you possibly have left? — but you always ask.
“Yeah,”
“Let Me see.”
You wipe your eyes and turn around.
“Aww that’s not so bad.” He says, smiling, “What were you trying to do?”
“I wanna get past the wall.” You point to something in the distance. Your voice is still a bit wobbly, and you manage to sound five.
“Ok.” He reaches out for your hand, “Let’s go see this wall.”
Hopefully you take His hand.
It isn’t until months later, when you’ve met another wall, one made of stone perhaps, and you’re rubbing your hurt nose again, that you remember you never thanked Him for getting you past the bricks.
He accepts your thanks and apology and requests all the same, reaching out to take your hand once again.
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I said something one dimensional when you asked me. It wasn’t that I hadn’t thought about it. It was just that I couldn’t find the right words to answer the question.
Maybe I have the words now?
My favorite place I’ve lived in as a child was California. We lived there for four years. We’d go to the beach often, so often that I can’t even remember it being significant. I remember for a science project in the fourth grade I wanted to compare solubility of… something, I can’t remember what. But I needed sea water, and after church we just drove to the beach. It wasn’t for fun, just for school, just for the sea water. The beach was that accessible, almost a staple, something needed but commonplace, taken for granted.
We left when I was eight. I don’t think I saw the sea again until I was fourteen.
I was at a beach in Kerela, India. There were too many people, a lot of noise, it was too cold and it had too much sand. I couldn’t for the life of me remember why I liked the beach so much as a kid. It was a rose colored memory, some naively beautiful story a child told herself, it had to be. I remember watching my mom and brother run toward the sea, calling after me to join them. They wanted to play in the water, not too far in, just far enough to feel the water crash against their legs and the soft silty sea sand wash over their toes. Maybe they thought it was wholesome fun. Looking out into the horizon, which drove waves crashing toward the shore, I was mesmerized by the turbulent, almost violent temperament of the water. How could you play like docile children before such a thing? Maybe it was a reality too large to comprehend, something to be ignored until it caused an issue. It brought me peace to realize I could relate.
Later in life, when we moved down south, the beach became accessible again, not a weekend trip like it had been before, but with some planning and five hours of driving, we can make it happen. I think the first time I drove long distance was on a road trip to the beach, I can’t quite remember.
Yes, at this point in my life, my family started going to the beach a lot again.
I remember sitting on a balcony one night at some vacation house in Florida, I don’t remember which one, and listening to the sea crash into the sand. It was too dark to see anything, but I could hear the ocean from a distance, beautiful beast. It must have been Christmas Break. Or maybe it was the day of? My mother had called her mother and, as I did a million times as a child, I listened in on their conversation. It was in Malayalam. Something about that paired with the sound of the crashing sea made me feel like I’m in my place. My ancestors lived in a coastal city. In another life, where different choices were made and different opportunities were presented, perhaps I would have been sitting by the ocean with my mother and grandmother, listening to them converse face to face as the Indian Ocean crept to the shore.
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The moon shone high in the night, radiating icy white light over the plains surrounding the campus of the Barrow Academy. Aside from a handful of students with impending finals, the lonely lands that stretched for miles held only dormant life. Gail never had the fortune of being invited into this dormancy.
A gust of wind pushed past the curtains into the room, allowing the lengths of white cotton to waltz aimlessly, framing the near midnight sky without: the whole and brilliant moon guarded by loyal stars. The image was otherworldly.
For a moment too long, Gail stood mesmerized by the image of a perfect night. It was the kind of beauty that deepened the pain of loneliness. The breeze blessed her once more with its cool caress and Gail leaned out of the window to receive it.
The weariness of another restless night dissolved with the sight of the night that stood before her, holding mysteries that were veiled thinly.
On another night, with good company, perhaps she would chase the stars to the horizon. When finals end, and she has the time and energy to give proper attention to the beauty that surrounds her, she would surely run to meet it like an unbridled stallion.
Such were the lies she amused herself with to gain courage to face another day.
An alarm sounded. Her laundry would be ready by now. Perhaps with at least clean sheets to sleep on, her mind can rest for what precious few hours remained of the night.
The hallway lights were always left turned on in the dormitories, even in the dead of night. It was something that Gail could never get used to. When she moved in as a First Year, it seemed to be a waste of resources. Now, with no time but midnight to do her laundry, she knew better than to question the small conveniences provided for her, regardless of their apparent lack of necessity.
The nearly full length windows in the laundry room —yet another seemingly useless feature— presented the image of the midnight sky once more. There was a red dot blinking though the sky and the moon stood fragmented as a double image against the panes of the window. With fluorescent lights that could have disoriented the average person’s circadian rhythm, bright green walls that peaked between washer-dryer units and confetti tiled floors, the laundry room stood as its own otherworldly image.
Standing there, with a laundry bag, ready to fold towels, sheets and underwear all the same at two in the morning, Gail wondered at what point the sparks of impulsivity that sustained the momentum of her life could be diagnosed as insanity.
Gail settled the laundry bag on the ground and reached for the dryer handle, ignoring the green letters that flashed on the tiny screen by the buttons. Clean, warm fabric might be enough to justify this madness. One can imagine her shock when her fingers tangled in just the opposite.
Push start and begin the cycle.
Gail blinked. She read the green flashing letters once more, not for want of confirmation, rather as a challenge to reality, daring it to push her over the edge.
Push start and begin the cycle.
It’s—O.K. Just stay calm.
Gail’s toe slammed metal, denting the machine slightly. Aside from shooting pain up her foot, the act did nothing. It was an ugly dent too. Looking up, Gail caught the CCTV camera glaring at her with condescending judgment.
Swallowing her pride, Gail did what she should’ve done an hour ago and pushed start to begin the cycle.
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As Sage watched the world beneath her shrink into a thousand diamonds, a prayer ran through her mind. This was not a plea to God for safety, nor a cry in desperation — as its many predecessors have been — rather a humble request. The lyric of a hymn to the immaculate Mother surprised the girl as it sounded from her mind, seemingly from dormancy. Seeing her motherland disappear from the airplane window, she repeated the words to herself, placing weight in each one.
I beg that you’d watch over the land of my birth.
Just three short weeks ago, these words would have been a hollow title, a happenstance. Birth was merely the event that started the string of chaos that followed. After a lifetime of detachment, Sage did not expect to find herself sentimental over this vaguely familiar notion: national loyalty. But the knowledge was there, deep beneath the layers of denial, that this was the country that generations of her ancestors have lived, loved and bled for, the one her parents called home: the land of her birth.
Hearing her mother-tongue spoken freely around her— without a moment of hesitation— drew out sadness that she hadn’t know persisted. For these last few hours, in this plane full of strangers, she will not be a minority. She is amongst countrymen.
The right to belong may be one Sage gave up — voluntarily at times — but the girl sought comfort in knowing she will always be entitled to her motherland: the land of her birth.
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You are about four years old. You lie in bed as a memory is made. Your father sings you to sleep. It is a song in a language you will take the pain to forget years down the line, then take the pain to salvage when sense settles.
The air is dense, you can barely breathe it in and the nightly summer breeze does nothing to stir the humidity that clings to your skin like a damp cloth.
You realize this will be a memory as it is being made. You do not believe it completely. Childhood is all you know. It cannot be fleeting.
A decade and a half will pass before you are brought back here. On the other side of the line, you think about how you were a child just yesterday, being sung to sleep by Dad. Where have the years gone? Far, somewhere unattainable from where you stand.
There is a narrow tube you can look through, somewhere in the back of your mind, that lets you dream. Dream about becoming a memory. Dream about your memories.
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It’s a silly fear, a child’s fear, but one that sends cold shivers down Sage’s back even now when she wakes from a restless nightmare featuring it. Marking her earliest memories, it was her oldest companion, this fear.
Sage was a girl of seven, or eight, too old to have such silly fears. The thought occurred to her on the car ride to the hotel, it was a vivid image of five sharp blades conjoined in the center, surrounded by a perfectly square frame. Always presiding in the top corner of the shower window, it watched you, naked as you are with nowhere to run.
No, Sage told herself, it won’t be there, not this time.
But praying and wishing never kept it away.
The elevator was ascending now. Excitement sparked amongst the other family members. Mom’s been waiting for this vacation for ages. Dad’s been researching the local scenic spots, eager to fill his new camera with family photos. Even Mai seemed vaguely happy at that moment.
“Now don’t sit there sulking, Sage.”
But she couldn’t help it. Sage closed her eyes and it was waiting for her: five sharp blades spinning fiercely.
The bellboy was walking them to their room, and Sage already had her senses on high alert, waiting for signs of its presence.
The key clicked and the door swung open. Crossing the threshold with her breath held, she listened closely for the persistent hum. It was distant and faint, so quiet, for a moment Sage allowed herself to believe that she imagined it.
“Help your sister with the bags.”
Sage made herself step forward, following the hum. It was cut off by silence.
“Sage.”
She took a few curious steps towards the bathroom. When the door swung open, she didn’t flinch.
“What?” her father laughed nervously, “Go help Mom unpack.” He was never a good liar.
Pushing past him, she grabbed the bathroom door handle. Though there was hesitation, she pushed through.
The ceiling was too high and the lights too dim. The bathroom mirror only reflected the lower half of the room. It was a room hand tailored to deceive Sage. She knew what she ought to do, so her work commenced.
Her reflection caught her eye —angry and prepared— and ordered her to stay strong. She scanned up to the top of the wall and was relieved to find its corners bare. Inching her focus to the left, she found two more corners that housed nothing but an abandoned spider web.
One more corner, she told herself.
Empty.
One more—
The door was in the way. She’d have to step in to get a proper look. Bracing herself, she treaded the tiled floor carefully.
Just a little further in.
The sight pricked fear into her heart.
“Why are you just standing there? Oh—” Mai’s disappointment could not have been more thinly veiled, “Mom—”
It took a minute for Sage to force herself to look at the Fan. It lay dormant, a subtle breeze might wake it. Its blades were still, too still. If she broke her gaze, they were sure to move, so she never broke her gaze. There was an illusion of safety that the glass shower door provided Sage with, as it stood transparently between Sage and the Fan.
The Fan grinned slyly down at her, knowing it had the power to pin her in its presence. The glass door that stood between the pair will soon cage her in. It has a long term alliance to consider and no time to spare Sage’s feelings regarding the matter.
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Sage looked around to see faces broken open in glee. Red faces, freshly blushed from the midwinter storm that they just walked in from, smiling at each other in familiarity. There were no eyes willing to meet hers.
Of course.
People were too predictable.
Sage looked down at her own hands, fingers darkened and slightly swollen from the aggressive cold. Clenching them, she tried to calm the buzzing of her frozen nail beds. A sigh escaped her before she tried to pull a smile onto her face, to match those surrounding her.
At times like these, she was sure she had made a mistake.
“You’re doing this out of habit.”
Her roommate’s words were far from a lie. It was a foolish pattern Sage had fallen into. When days blended together into a predictable march, a kindle sparked within her. She needed to burn down the life she built for herself just to know she can build something different from its ashes. Now, looking around at the damage she had done, she realizes she has no idea which pieces she needs to pick up to put back together.
To make things worse, there were just too many people here, too many faces that have already grown familiar with each other. It would take a decade to beat this cacophonous noise into a predictable march.
Is this what you moved here for?
The question, with all its bitter contempt, slapped her back into the present.
No.
There would be time later to mope around and feel sorry for herself, or maybe there won’t. Right now, she had ashes to collect and not time to focus on the unfamiliar noise.
Scanning the room, she was adamant to find a space to pry herself into amidst the chaos. A friendly face caught Sage’s attention, and she fought her gut instinct to break eye contact. Though she couldn’t put a name to it, she feigned familiarity, and waved. They waved back.
Of course.
She could not help but let her smile grow genuine.
People were too predictable.
The latter beckoned her over and she obliged.
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