shibusa
This week’s entry is an intersection with the very talented douchejuice. He has done me the honor of not only collaborating with me, but also stepping up as my champion to represent me in this week’s voting over at therealljidol. Please start by reading his entry here.
Memories are markers that show us the paths that we have walked. When we lose some of these signpoints, the fragmented pieces left behind may deprive us of the truth - and of the moments of beauty that make the rest worthwhile.
II
You were fifteen years old, and it was your first time hanging out in a hospital.
It smelled of ointment and disinfectant and the stale air of regret, and you couldn’t wait to leave. But you couldn’t go. Because that stranger in the bed in front of you - the withered woman with the bluish papery skin - was looking at you.
And you needed her.
Every few minutes, you could feel the tickle in the back of your throat - a sob, or a scream - threatening to rise up. The adrenaline would surge along your veins, and if your hands shook a little, she didn’t seem to notice. Her hands were shaking, too, but her grip remained firm.
“Sit with me,” she murmured, gingerly scooting to one side of the bed.
You glanced at your parents, your little sisters, and hesitated. Then you crawled onto the bed, the cheap, worn sheets rustling beneath your weight, and into the crook of her arm, your head coming to rest on her shoulder. She smoothed your hair back from your forehead. You sank into her, all arms and legs and nerdy glasses, and somehow, she was still big enough, strong enough, to contain you.
She clasped your face between her frail hands and studied your deep blue eyes, so much like hers. And in that moment, you knew that she could see you.
And she didn’t look away.
Instead, she kissed you on the forehead and hugged you while you held on for dear life.
IV
You were sixteen years old, and your grandfather was freshly remarried.
It felt too soon, but who were you to say anything? Her absence was like a rotting tooth, deep in your gums. You couldn’t run your tongue along its edges without white-hot streaks of pain arcing through your body.
And you couldn’t not poke it.
So you figured maybe he ought to be allowed to not probe it as he saw fit. He had loved her longer than you.
You visited many times that summer, even though his home was soulless without Gramma in it. Your mother seemed to feel the same way, but she dutifully loaded everyone up and made the drive every other weekend. Family is important, she would remind you when you made a face. We won’t always have him.
She was right, of course, but that didn’t make your visits more enjoyable.
You were sitting under the walnut tree in their backyard, reading Ender's Game, when your littlest sister called out to you from the swings.
“Derek, watch me!”
You lowered your book with a half smile, just in time to see your seven-year-old sister take flight from the very apex of the swing’s trajectory. She sailed through the air, smiling long after you were already dropping your book and scrambling to your feet. She didn’t realize her error until a split-second before she landed, face crumpling as the bulk of her slight weight but significant momentum came down on her left foot.
By then, you were halfway across the yard.
You scooped her up, and she cried into your shoulder, snot and tears soaking into your VBS t-shirt. Her ankle didn’t look too bad - you knew Mom would want to ice it - but it didn’t really matter. It was the first time she had ever wanted to fly, and of course, the moment she had learned she couldn’t.
You sat in the grass with her for an hour and taught her every corny joke you could think of.
V
You were almost seventeen years old, and you knew there was nothing left for you here.
High school was just as miserable for you as it was for everybody else, but it felt personal somehow. Going to classes and summer camps for gifted kids had just given you a greater sense of otherness where you had hoped for camaraderie. Your parents were always proud of your accomplishments, but the praise felt hollow. Wasn’t this just what you were supposed to do?
But it changed, at least for a moment, one day in early January.
You walked in the door from school, and your mom was holding a big envelope from USC.
The big envelope. The one that would only be sent to 50 students for the year, inviting them to attend one of the country’s most prestigious universities - as a high school senior.
Here was otherness that promised something more - an escape from the rural existence you had suffered until now. Bigger playgrounds, bigger ideas, broader mindsets. And a blank slate to become someone new, if only you could figure out whom that person was supposed to be.
Your father hugged you - something he did often - and clapped you on the back. Your little sisters jumped up and down, and you couldn’t help it - you held their hands and jumped, too, your bare feet slapping against the warm stones of the hearth.
Your mother kissed you on both cheeks and hurried off to call Grandpa.
In that moment, the people who loved you best let you go, with all of their pride and faith and good will to fortify you. You were so busy reveling in your great luck that you nearly missed it.
VI
You turned eighteen, and both floundered and thrived in that new world.
You didn’t realize it at the time, but it was the lifeblood of the college experience flowing through your veins. Sure, it was USC, it was California, something bigger and wilder than your humble midwestern roots. But really, it was newness and uncertainty, diversity and independence, a heady wine that you drank greedily.
And it was friendship. For the first time in your life, you had found your people.
They were no cooler than you were, though you all made a good faith effort. They too had come to college with dreams of being reinvented, now that they knew the hunger for acceptance. What they discovered instead - what you each discovered - was the novel idea that everyone is trying to find their way.
And perhaps you weren’t so lost after all, if there were so many people on the path with you.
But freshman year ended, and home beckoned. You said goodbye to your friends and flew back to Missouri, where the old walls began to close in around you. They didn’t fit anymore - you saw now that they never had - but you didn’t have an alternative. You were stuck until August.
So you started reaching out. Instant messenger became a lifeline, a channel you could leave open for a dozen hours a day. Even when your friends were idle or offline, you knew they were on the other end, somewhere, connected.
You’d stay at the keyboard far into the night, bloodshot eyes illuminated by the harsh light of the screen, talking with them about everything and nothing. When you got tired of typing, you would call.
There was a night that three of you stayed up late, voices subdued as they crackled across the power lines. For some reason, the talk had turned to sex - a phenomenon that was relatively new to the three of you. Everyone had a story to tell.
The bravado petered out quickly, though, and stillness followed.
“My friend found her dad’s porno mags when we were six,” she admitted suddenly. “My mom caught us with them and totally freaked out. I guess I feel like I’ve always known about sex, as long as I can remember.”
“Yeah, I never really got The Talk from my parents,” he chimed in. “I blame television. Sex sells, even to kids.”
Your breath caught in your throat for a moment, and your grip tightened on the cordless phone in your hand. You closed your eyes for a moment, and lowered your laptop screen, the click of its latch ringing in your ears.
“Something happened to me and my sister, when we were kids,” you began. “I mean, I don’t really remember much. I mean, I’m not sure what it was. But I know what that kid did to us was wrong, and I’ve felt dirty ever since.”
“Did you ever tell anyone?” she asked softly.
“Nothing to tell,” you answered, shrugging. “I mean, I don’t know what to say. I don’t have details, just pictures here and there, awful things. And I can’t talk to my sister about it. I can only pray to God that she doesn’t remember.”
“You can talk to us, yo,” he chimed in. “And hey, fuck that guy. Don’t let him ruin your life.”
That was enough honesty for one night, even in the safety of your darkened bedroom, and talk turned to easier things. It would be years before you spoke the words aloud again.
VIII
It ends, only to begin again, in Hades.
They offer you a choice - to drink from the river Lethe, and forget your sorrows before the next life, or to drink from the pool of Mnemosyne and remember.
So much has already been lost, and so much gained. You soak in the coolness of the cavern, the crunch of stones beneath your feet. You hadn’t expected something so visceral after death.
But you kneel before the pool of Mnemosyne, bits of gravel digging into your faded jeans, and if you didn’t know better, you would swear that your heart is fluttering in your chest.
You cup both hands in the icy water and lift them to your lips.
You scan the darkness, and pause as your eyes lock on a gaunt man crouched at the far end of the pool. His eyes are sunken and shadowed. His skin is grayish in the dim light, and his head hangs low.
As if he can feel your stare, he stiffens and meets your gaze.
His jaw works for a second, lips parting, but nothing comes out. A single tear wells up in his left eye, a wave threatening to break and drown you both.
You didn’t pray for him when you were 25, and you aren’t inclined to pray for him now.
Instead, you cautiously raise your cupped hands, and nod.
His face is unreadable as he returns the gesture.
Together, you drink of Mnemosyne and promise not to forget.
therealljidol week 38: shibusa
Memories are markers that show us the paths that we have walked. When we lose some of these signpoints, the fragmented pieces left behind may deprive us of the truth - and of the moments of beauty that make the rest worthwhile.
II
You were fifteen years old, and it was your first time hanging out in a hospital.
It smelled of ointment and disinfectant and the stale air of regret, and you couldn’t wait to leave. But you couldn’t go. Because that stranger in the bed in front of you - the withered woman with the bluish papery skin - was looking at you.
And you needed her.
Every few minutes, you could feel the tickle in the back of your throat - a sob, or a scream - threatening to rise up. The adrenaline would surge along your veins, and if your hands shook a little, she didn’t seem to notice. Her hands were shaking, too, but her grip remained firm.
“Sit with me,” she murmured, gingerly scooting to one side of the bed.
You glanced at your parents, your little sisters, and hesitated. Then you crawled onto the bed, the cheap, worn sheets rustling beneath your weight, and into the crook of her arm, your head coming to rest on her shoulder. She smoothed your hair back from your forehead. You sank into her, all arms and legs and nerdy glasses, and somehow, she was still big enough, strong enough, to contain you.
She clasped your face between her frail hands and studied your deep blue eyes, so much like hers. And in that moment, you knew that she could see you.
And she didn’t look away.
Instead, she kissed you on the forehead and hugged you while you held on for dear life.
IV
You were sixteen years old, and your grandfather was freshly remarried.
It felt too soon, but who were you to say anything? Her absence was like a rotting tooth, deep in your gums. You couldn’t run your tongue along its edges without white-hot streaks of pain arcing through your body.
And you couldn’t not poke it.
So you figured maybe he ought to be allowed to not probe it as he saw fit. He had loved her longer than you.
You visited many times that summer, even though his home was soulless without Gramma in it. Your mother seemed to feel the same way, but she dutifully loaded everyone up and made the drive every other weekend. Family is important, she would remind you when you made a face. We won’t always have him.
She was right, of course, but that didn’t make your visits more enjoyable.
You were sitting under the walnut tree in their backyard, reading Ender's Game, when your littlest sister called out to you from the swings.
“Derek, watch me!”
You lowered your book with a half smile, just in time to see your seven-year-old sister take flight from the very apex of the swing’s trajectory. She sailed through the air, smiling long after you were already dropping your book and scrambling to your feet. She didn’t realize her error until a split-second before she landed, face crumpling as the bulk of her slight weight but significant momentum came down on her left foot.
By then, you were halfway across the yard.
You scooped her up, and she cried into your shoulder, snot and tears soaking into your VBS t-shirt. Her ankle didn’t look too bad - you knew Mom would want to ice it - but it didn’t really matter. It was the first time she had ever wanted to fly, and of course, the moment she had learned she couldn’t.
You sat in the grass with her for an hour and taught her every corny joke you could think of.
V
You were almost seventeen years old, and you knew there was nothing left for you here.
High school was just as miserable for you as it was for everybody else, but it felt personal somehow. Going to classes and summer camps for gifted kids had just given you a greater sense of otherness where you had hoped for camaraderie. Your parents were always proud of your accomplishments, but the praise felt hollow. Wasn’t this just what you were supposed to do?
But it changed, at least for a moment, one day in early January.
You walked in the door from school, and your mom was holding a big envelope from USC.
The big envelope. The one that would only be sent to 50 students for the year, inviting them to attend one of the country’s most prestigious universities - as a high school senior.
Here was otherness that promised something more - an escape from the rural existence you had suffered until now. Bigger playgrounds, bigger ideas, broader mindsets. And a blank slate to become someone new, if only you could figure out whom that person was supposed to be.
Your father hugged you - something he did often - and clapped you on the back. Your little sisters jumped up and down, and you couldn’t help it - you held their hands and jumped, too, your bare feet slapping against the warm stones of the hearth.
Your mother kissed you on both cheeks and hurried off to call Grandpa.
In that moment, the people who loved you best let you go, with all of their pride and faith and good will to fortify you. You were so busy reveling in your great luck that you nearly missed it.
VI
You turned eighteen, and both floundered and thrived in that new world.
You didn’t realize it at the time, but it was the lifeblood of the college experience flowing through your veins. Sure, it was USC, it was California, something bigger and wilder than your humble midwestern roots. But really, it was newness and uncertainty, diversity and independence, a heady wine that you drank greedily.
And it was friendship. For the first time in your life, you had found your people.
They were no cooler than you were, though you all made a good faith effort. They too had come to college with dreams of being reinvented, now that they knew the hunger for acceptance. What they discovered instead - what you each discovered - was the novel idea that everyone is trying to find their way.
And perhaps you weren’t so lost after all, if there were so many people on the path with you.
But freshman year ended, and home beckoned. You said goodbye to your friends and flew back to Missouri, where the old walls began to close in around you. They didn’t fit anymore - you saw now that they never had - but you didn’t have an alternative. You were stuck until August.
So you started reaching out. Instant messenger became a lifeline, a channel you could leave open for a dozen hours a day. Even when your friends were idle or offline, you knew they were on the other end, somewhere, connected.
You’d stay at the keyboard far into the night, bloodshot eyes illuminated by the harsh light of the screen, talking with them about everything and nothing. When you got tired of typing, you would call.
There was a night that three of you stayed up late, voices subdued as they crackled across the power lines. For some reason, the talk had turned to sex - a phenomenon that was relatively new to the three of you. Everyone had a story to tell.
The bravado petered out quickly, though, and stillness followed.
“My friend found her dad’s porno mags when we were six,” she admitted suddenly. “My mom caught us with them and totally freaked out. I guess I feel like I’ve always known about sex, as long as I can remember.”
“Yeah, I never really got The Talk from my parents,” he chimed in. “I blame television. Sex sells, even to kids.”
Your breath caught in your throat for a moment, and your grip tightened on the cordless phone in your hand. You closed your eyes for a moment, and lowered your laptop screen, the click of its latch ringing in your ears.
“Something happened to me and my sister, when we were kids,” you began. “I mean, I don’t really remember much. I mean, I’m not sure what it was. But I know what that kid did to us was wrong, and I’ve felt dirty ever since.”
“Did you ever tell anyone?” she asked softly.
“Nothing to tell,” you answered, shrugging. “I mean, I don’t know what to say. I don’t have details, just pictures here and there, awful things. And I can’t talk to my sister about it. I can only pray to God that she doesn’t remember.”
“You can talk to us, yo,” he chimed in. “And hey, fuck that guy. Don’t let him ruin your life.”
That was enough honesty for one night, even in the safety of your darkened bedroom, and talk turned to easier things. It would be years before you spoke the words aloud again.
VIII
It ends, only to begin again, in Hades.
They offer you a choice - to drink from the river Lethe, and forget your sorrows before the next life, or to drink from the pool of Mnemosyne and remember.
So much has already been lost, and so much gained. You soak in the coolness of the cavern, the crunch of stones beneath your feet. You hadn’t expected something so visceral after death.
But you kneel before the pool of Mnemosyne, bits of gravel digging into your faded jeans, and if you didn’t know better, you would swear that your heart is fluttering in your chest.
You cup both hands in the icy water and lift them to your lips.
You scan the darkness, and pause as your eyes lock on a gaunt man crouched at the far end of the pool. His eyes are sunken and shadowed. His skin is grayish in the dim light, and his head hangs low.
As if he can feel your stare, he stiffens and meets your gaze.
His jaw works for a second, lips parting, but nothing comes out. A single tear wells up in his left eye, a wave threatening to break and drown you both.
You didn’t pray for him when you were 25, and you aren’t inclined to pray for him now.
Instead, you cautiously raise your cupped hands, and nod.
His face is unreadable as he returns the gesture.
Together, you drink of Mnemosyne and promise not to forget.
therealljidol week 38: shibusa