[STORY]
I Am Not Going To Create A Poetic Title Regarding Mortality And Seasons, Nor Will I Make A Springtime Pun.
by Shiratama
Recently I was approached- I won't recount the entire conversation, it became a little bit animated. The short of it, though, was essentially, "If you know so much, why don't you go on and write it down for someone who wants to listen?" Now, this isn't the first time I've been told such a thing. However, I've been told to do a great deal of things, as I'm sure you all have - you ought to become a historian, or please just jump off of a cliff - and so you may wonder why it's this out of all other options I've agreed to sit down and do.
To be fair, I have in fact followed through with half of the examples given above, and it had nothing to do with historians, I'll say that much.
I am an old lady. I am not loathe to admit as much, nor do I particularly miss my youth. What I've heard, and what I assume very many rowdy, disobedient, flippant, wasteful, ungrateful, insufferable, overconfident, unappreciative, and so on children have heard, is that youth is wasted on the young. I do not actually agree with this (meaning, it's entirely false). Youth begins (directly following a rather large amount of toddling and falling on bottoms, at least) with a spring in its step, and that spring lessens, curls at its edges with a brown tint to things, similar of course to months-old leaves. You're aware of this I'm sure, whether you, the reader, are old or young yourself; how does it feel, little one? Ah, and I ask that to the lot of you, and not only the tiny-in-years. The majority of the population finds the idea of death daunting, whether it be for fear of any sort of Afterlife or simple Nothingness, or thanks to the fact that they've 'things yet left unfinished.' To some, the prospect of dying is genuinely terrifying; others may feel only unease or melancholy because of it. This is what I call 'seasonal depression.'
It's a comparison which has been drawn before - 'seasons' and the stages of life, that is. Childhood is spring, joyous in its blooming jump-starts; early adulthood is summer, with its warmth (and its copious amounts of alcohol and sex, I suppose), while autumn is 'getting up there.' Old people are wintry, dying as trees-
(Take note of the fact that no one includes the lonely/proud evergreen, in this metaphor. I'm offended.)
-And really, who among you is very eager to freeze to death? I'll wager not many, and part my lips with interest at those who are. It isn't strange, wanting to hang on to your life for as long as you're naturally able. (This is what they call a 'human interest story.' I have reason to believe, by now, that living is an interest of humanity's.) You shouldn't worry too much, though, I think. As the youth is made for the young, so too is the time of being elderly made for the old. Is that so bad? No, it isn't really.
I will admit right now that I might perhaps think differently of this if I were to be arthritic. But as I'm not, this is pretty much how things are.
The center of things: There was a set of siblings I once came across, when I was also considered a young thing. These siblings were likely around six and eight years old; brothers, the both of them. It was a tree I lived in at the time, along with a boy, and we watched the babies walk. They walked a very long way, actually - that boy and I, we switched trees in order to keep an eye on each of them - and their tiny steps moved along in angled paths, creating zig-zagging lines that were as shaky as their linked fingers. I remember these things, even if it was a long time ago; I remember their scents (earthy, salty, would have been licked clean had they rested with animals) and I remember their shapes (round-faced, and angular at many other places, pressed together, jigsaws at point one, mismatched at point two, a ridiculous need for extra padding whether it be thin cloth or brother's skin).
Or perhaps I do not remember them exactly and am imagining these details, but bear with me and imagine them also.
The season was winter and I do not recall the month. The younger baby said, "Brother," and he was responded to with, "Yes."
"It's hard to breathe."
"Yes."
"The air is cold. I think my insides are frozen."
"Yes."
"It's hard."
"Am I going to die?"
This is the place where the older baby ceased his yessing, and he did not give his younger brother affirmation. What he did instead is he lead the tinier away, still hand in hand, and they nestled underneath a tree, together amongst its large and empty roots. If I am correct in my recollections, it was the older baby with his back against the tree bark: he set his brother at his lap, bony back against bony chest, and sat with thin arms around. The smaller child said once again, "Brother," and again he received no reply. By now the boy and I were in branches above those babies; we looked down upon the roots and we watched very carefully. Their breaths were easy to hear, even if they did not last two hours past sunset. The smallest child stuttered a while, hiccuping inhales, blue veins stark against skin. When he was completely lifeless (at this time there were streaks of orange in the clouds), the older child realized it and brushed his brother's hair back, only once, and then he laid there quietly and looked up into the leaves. We were visible, and he prayed to us; his lips were chapped when they moved and his words were largely lost. But he did pray.
Being prayed to is always such a cotton-like happening.
When everything was black and blue, sky-wise, he also died, very gently, very hushed. With fluttering and rustling, the boy and I crept down, also to rest at roots. We did not touch. We looked at them a little longer, those two bodies, and then we took to other trees, other places, and did not sleep until the sky was once again orange. It was cold.
That's the story I decided to tell, upon proclaiming that I don't believe youth to be wasted on the young. To say as much is to claim that life is wasted on the living-
And that happens very rarely.
I submit that I am an older lady than most around here. I submit that I have seen quite a few babies, like you, and you, and you as well. (I am a watcher: I like to watch. This is apparently creepy. Nothing to be done about that, I guess.) Therefore I'm relatively sure that I certainly know what I'm talking about. The young are young because they are meant to be young. The young die young because everyone dies. Everyone dies because it is a natural process, because even the tropics have their winters while the poles have their sun.
Still... do stay off of lawns when you're told. You'd be surprised as how well some old folks can give chase, I think.
Questions? Comments for the author? Submit here!
[ooc: keep in mind that any replies of the author go through Eyewitness Ltd's filters in this case, and will be anonymous!]