(no subject)
There is a white mark on my thumb. I think they're supposed to be calcium deposits, but my grandmother always told me that they show how many girlfriends or boyfriends you have. I've had them before, and they've always been there when I have loved someone, so maybe there's something to that. I've been amazed at the size of this one. It's the largest I've ever had; it's the largest I've ever seen. And it's been there for so long. Now, though, it creeps toward the edge of my nail. Every day I lose another sliver of the mark. I wonder, when it reaches the edge, when I clip away the last remnant, will she be gone, will my feelings for her be gone?
I remember a story about a boy who was bedridden with illness. He would surely die: the only thing allowing him to live was his will for such. Every day he lay and stared out the same window to the same sight, obscured by a branch and leaves. He fell in love with that branch, but as winter approached the leaves began to fall one by one. With every leaf that fell, the boy grew further into despair. He resolved that he would die when the last leaf fell. When there was only one leaf remaining, he prepared himself for his final moments. But that leaf never fell. Every day he waited for it to let loose from the branch, set his soul free, but every day it remained static.
It turns out that his father, hearing his son swear to that deathly idea, went outside while his son slept, during a horrible storm, and painted the leaf onto his window. The father slipped off the ladder and broke his neck. But the leaf was permanent, and the boy never died.
I think about painting the mark onto my thumb in the same way.
--
I went hiking today. It started to rain, but I didn't go home. I kept hiking.
I remember a story about a boy who was bedridden with illness. He would surely die: the only thing allowing him to live was his will for such. Every day he lay and stared out the same window to the same sight, obscured by a branch and leaves. He fell in love with that branch, but as winter approached the leaves began to fall one by one. With every leaf that fell, the boy grew further into despair. He resolved that he would die when the last leaf fell. When there was only one leaf remaining, he prepared himself for his final moments. But that leaf never fell. Every day he waited for it to let loose from the branch, set his soul free, but every day it remained static.
It turns out that his father, hearing his son swear to that deathly idea, went outside while his son slept, during a horrible storm, and painted the leaf onto his window. The father slipped off the ladder and broke his neck. But the leaf was permanent, and the boy never died.
I think about painting the mark onto my thumb in the same way.
--
I went hiking today. It started to rain, but I didn't go home. I kept hiking.