Some years back, a friend and I were at a bar. I had asked her the kind of question you don’t normally ask at a bar - not before you’ve finished your first drink, anyway: “Where do you wanna be 5 years from now?”
To be fair, it hadn’t come out of nowhere; she was in the midst of potential career change and, well, it was making her ponder shit. She loved her current job, but she had received an offer from somewhere new, for almost double the salary. So of course, she expected little more than to hand in her resignation and throw deuces (I mean…). But to her surprise, and a little dismay, her current boss had made a comparable counteroffer. Either way, she would wind up making way more money than she was. But which job to take?
So I said, what it would come down to is: where did she want to be 5 years from now? And which job would help to best get her there?
It’s an age-old question, ya know…what’s it all about? Why are we here? But in the years leading up to our CoVid moment, there didn’t seem to be much of those sorts of discussions anymore. Instead, things seemed to be reaching a burnout point. There was just…too much of everything, and it was all a clog on the brain and the senses. Too much excess, too much anger, too much instability, too much FaceTune. And worse, it was an environment to which, and in which, we’d all become numbly complacent. There was no time to protest or make stands or ask the real questions, but there was all the time in the world for things like 2+ hour commutes, 60-hour work weeks, 2 or 3 jobs. Seeking promotion after promotion. Buying shit and more shit.
For what? And why?
And in a way, things did crash: this virus grinded things to a halt in a way that I am convinced needed to happen, and in a way that I don't know we would have been able to do on our own. But the conversations I kept hearing, reading, being dragged into, are those which say "I want things to get back to normal.” Let’s just get back to work. This isn’t fair. This isn’t right. Why are we risking the economy over this? How soon can we re-open? On and on. And while I understand – people need their job to make a living and survive, and we certainly can’t have our economy collapse (check out Pramila Jayapal’s proposal on ensuring that doesn’t happen, btw) – I see that whole viewpoint, and the debate it ensues, as a real loss.
For we’ve been given something that I don’t think any of us have ever had, and might never get again: months of time, and perhaps months more.
My hope at the beginning of it was that this would be a “pause” from the constant noise and grind of what our country has molded our lives to be, and become an opportunity for us to step back from it. For many of us, it could be a time to figure out what we value, and what we really want our lives to be. Not just as individuals, but as a society as well. Maybe we should question the necessity of commutes and office space. Maybe we should question our level of consumption. Maybe, once all the netflix and amazon has been watched, we should wonder we really enjoy doing with our time. Maybe we should wonder, what matters to me? Is it working to the point of stress and exhaustion, even for a fat paycheck, or is there something more?
Of course, most of the friends I told this to reacted with cynicism. "It’s all gonna go right back, right to how it was," they said, "Nothing’s gonna change. You have too much hope for people; they aren’t gonna be doing that sort of soul-searching.” And maybe they’re right. I’m sure plenty of people will be putting their focus on arguing over masks and if Fauci is lying and demanding to be allowed to go back to work so they can go right back into the routine they were in and WHO is corrupt trash and trolling in internet arguments and falling victim to the latest divisive thing.
But maybe…maybe not.
I’m not a huge believer in things like fate, but certain stars have seemed to align of late. Oftentimes, it takes terrible circumstances to push us to finally act against things that seemed for so long impossible to topple. Because right now, we’ve got this perfect storm: 40 million people out of work. We’re home, a captive audience to everything that unfolds before us every day. There’s nothing to keep us from it, other than actively tuning out; given that there’s a health crisis and people want to stay informed, I don’t know many who aren’t watching, reading, or listening. Only this time, instead of just being pissed off or shocked or disgusted, we have the addition of pent-up energy. Only this time, the routine that normally would wear us out or keep us preoccupied, is gone.
Watching the protests yesterday gave me hope. For so long, these sorts of protests haven't happened to such a degree because people just couldn't take off work, even for a day. But now they've got nothing to lose. And maybe it had to happen this way. Maybe these protests wouldn't have happened if we weren't all waiting for lockdown to be over. Maybe the outrage wouldn't have been as intense as it should be, had we all been in caught up our normal routines. But seeing what these protesters are fighting for - something bigger, something to hopefully change the way things have been for too long - should make us all reevaluate what's really important and what really matters. I truly hope these protests open a door that otherwise wouldn’t have been opened. And make us all understand that CoVid will be over eventually, and we have the ability to shift what's waiting for us when we get there.
Saturday, May 30, 2020
Wednesday, May 27, 2020
To Measure The Value of a Thank-You Note
I don’t really know where to begin with this one.
No, seriously; I really don’t. For some reason, when I write in this style – first-person, memoir-esque – it just comes out in funny / self-deprecating / perhaps thoughtful. But when it comes to the sad, the painful…that voice just seems to show itself out. Maybe because the worst things I’ve felt in the course of my life – namely, whatever I couldn’t really turn into something funny - were the very things I kept to myself. But the irony is, when I talk now to friends and I tell them about “this shit thing” or “that shit thing”, they always say: gurl, you need to be writing about that.
So tonight, with the vestiges of tears still clinging to my eyes and cheeks, I’m going to try.
Oh – and I’m also playing Fade Into You (Mazzy Starr, ovbz) to, ya know – keep me in the mood.
Honestly, I don’t even know why I got as upset as I did. It had all started off fun; hilarious, even. My parents had dropped off a bunch of old board games at my house earlier, and unbeknownst to me, they had also thrown in a large envelope filled with papers. I chuckled to myself, thinking, classic Mom. Always trying to sneak in things like that - drawings we had done as kids, old tests or notebooks from school. She likely just wants them out of the house, sure, but – also, she feels in her heart we (my siblings and I) would want them. Or at least, appreciate them.
So, I open the envelope and begin to curiously empty its contents, wondering what it’ll be this time. It starts off slightly confusing – why would Mom be giving me all the thank-you cards that I (ever, by the looks of it) wrote to my grandparents? But before I could puzzle the strangeness of getting back thank-you cards I had written so many years ago, there came some detours – such as, the synagogue program from the weekend of my bat mitzvah. A playbill from the drama show of my junior year, which featured a play written and directed by me (god, that day was one of the most fun in all four years of high school). The startlingly feminist poem I wrote in 8th grade (I apparently had some views at 13), which I read aloud to my boyfriend despite his pleading for me not to. I can’t imagine why he didn’t want to hear it: to give you an idea, one of my favorite parts compared the female gender to the queen in chess – the most powerful piece on the board, and the male gender to the king – slow, oafish, helpless, taking forever to move, and only able to do so one step at a time.
I laughed so loud I scared one of our cats out of the room.
And then, there came more and more thank-you cards. One after another, from the more sophisticated college ones, to high school. The ones from junior high where I was definitely still deciding what I wanted my handwriting to look like, to clumsily hand-drawn filled sheets from when I was 4 or 5. All of them from me, to my grandparents. And then - and I don’t why then, in that moment - it hit me.
My grandparents had kept these. They must have. For all these years.
It was such a powerful thing, and I didn’t even realize. All those years of “just cards” that I wrote or made or drew, even emails from college that my grandpa had printed out to keep, that didn’t mean little to me per se, but…that I certainly couldn’t have imagined had meant so much to my grandparents. Enough, in fact, that at age 91, this is the first time my grandma has chosen to part with them. And while I do always say apartment cleansing is cathartic as fuck – this time, my grandma's came with a slight casualty.
As I sat there sobbing, surrounded by decades of thank-you cards, it wasn’t a sea of memories in the way I normally experience it - though I do distinctly remember writing many of them. It was a wave, of life, of the past, of understanding my grandparents and what they cherished more than I ever had before.
Yet, I still didn’t know why I was so upset. I cried and cried for, oh god, 20 minutes straight? But why? It was a feeling, an overwhelming one, of memories and nostalgia, of yearning and heartbreak, but not that, and so much more than that. I tried to explain it to my boyfriend, failing again and again. After talking for some time, which involved many tears over my (recently deceased) grandpa, he said to call my mom, talk to her about this. “If this is about your grandparents, she’ll understand,” he said, “It’ll be good to talk to her about that – you’re both going through the same emotions.” I sullenly stared at him, then the floor. “I wouldn’t even know what to say, I don’t know even know why I’m feeling like this.” Hugging me, he said, “Call her.”
So, I did. And I resorted to what I’ve always resorted to with writing – shameless honesty. Okay so, I don’t know what to say? Then, that is exactly what I say – “Hi mom, I don’t know why I’m so upset, but…”
It turned out to be the best thing I could have done. My mom, as always, was amazing, and knew all the things I needed to hear to feel better - classic Mom. “We were a family who wrote letters,” she said, “And in the world we live in now, of texts and emails…there’s no sentimental value in that. And sentimental value, is a powerful thing. That’s why I wanted you to have those cards.”
Which is true. We were a letter-writing family. As a kid, I had boxes filled with cards written to me, and my mom confessed tonight she may have a near-closet filled with correspondence she’s received. That she’ll never throw them away, for the same reason those letters left me sobbing – the sentimental value in them is immeasurable, and more powerful than I certainly could have ever imagined.
No, I don’t think everyone needs to go out and write letters, or panic over all the ones they may have discarded over the years (whoops). But maybe to simply remember, in the vapid and often lonely world we live in, there’s still room for a box – or two – of reminders of what really matters.
No, seriously; I really don’t. For some reason, when I write in this style – first-person, memoir-esque – it just comes out in funny / self-deprecating / perhaps thoughtful. But when it comes to the sad, the painful…that voice just seems to show itself out. Maybe because the worst things I’ve felt in the course of my life – namely, whatever I couldn’t really turn into something funny - were the very things I kept to myself. But the irony is, when I talk now to friends and I tell them about “this shit thing” or “that shit thing”, they always say: gurl, you need to be writing about that.
So tonight, with the vestiges of tears still clinging to my eyes and cheeks, I’m going to try.
Oh – and I’m also playing Fade Into You (Mazzy Starr, ovbz) to, ya know – keep me in the mood.
Honestly, I don’t even know why I got as upset as I did. It had all started off fun; hilarious, even. My parents had dropped off a bunch of old board games at my house earlier, and unbeknownst to me, they had also thrown in a large envelope filled with papers. I chuckled to myself, thinking, classic Mom. Always trying to sneak in things like that - drawings we had done as kids, old tests or notebooks from school. She likely just wants them out of the house, sure, but – also, she feels in her heart we (my siblings and I) would want them. Or at least, appreciate them.
So, I open the envelope and begin to curiously empty its contents, wondering what it’ll be this time. It starts off slightly confusing – why would Mom be giving me all the thank-you cards that I (ever, by the looks of it) wrote to my grandparents? But before I could puzzle the strangeness of getting back thank-you cards I had written so many years ago, there came some detours – such as, the synagogue program from the weekend of my bat mitzvah. A playbill from the drama show of my junior year, which featured a play written and directed by me (god, that day was one of the most fun in all four years of high school). The startlingly feminist poem I wrote in 8th grade (I apparently had some views at 13), which I read aloud to my boyfriend despite his pleading for me not to. I can’t imagine why he didn’t want to hear it: to give you an idea, one of my favorite parts compared the female gender to the queen in chess – the most powerful piece on the board, and the male gender to the king – slow, oafish, helpless, taking forever to move, and only able to do so one step at a time.
I laughed so loud I scared one of our cats out of the room.
And then, there came more and more thank-you cards. One after another, from the more sophisticated college ones, to high school. The ones from junior high where I was definitely still deciding what I wanted my handwriting to look like, to clumsily hand-drawn filled sheets from when I was 4 or 5. All of them from me, to my grandparents. And then - and I don’t why then, in that moment - it hit me.
My grandparents had kept these. They must have. For all these years.
It was such a powerful thing, and I didn’t even realize. All those years of “just cards” that I wrote or made or drew, even emails from college that my grandpa had printed out to keep, that didn’t mean little to me per se, but…that I certainly couldn’t have imagined had meant so much to my grandparents. Enough, in fact, that at age 91, this is the first time my grandma has chosen to part with them. And while I do always say apartment cleansing is cathartic as fuck – this time, my grandma's came with a slight casualty.
As I sat there sobbing, surrounded by decades of thank-you cards, it wasn’t a sea of memories in the way I normally experience it - though I do distinctly remember writing many of them. It was a wave, of life, of the past, of understanding my grandparents and what they cherished more than I ever had before.
Yet, I still didn’t know why I was so upset. I cried and cried for, oh god, 20 minutes straight? But why? It was a feeling, an overwhelming one, of memories and nostalgia, of yearning and heartbreak, but not that, and so much more than that. I tried to explain it to my boyfriend, failing again and again. After talking for some time, which involved many tears over my (recently deceased) grandpa, he said to call my mom, talk to her about this. “If this is about your grandparents, she’ll understand,” he said, “It’ll be good to talk to her about that – you’re both going through the same emotions.” I sullenly stared at him, then the floor. “I wouldn’t even know what to say, I don’t know even know why I’m feeling like this.” Hugging me, he said, “Call her.”
So, I did. And I resorted to what I’ve always resorted to with writing – shameless honesty. Okay so, I don’t know what to say? Then, that is exactly what I say – “Hi mom, I don’t know why I’m so upset, but…”
It turned out to be the best thing I could have done. My mom, as always, was amazing, and knew all the things I needed to hear to feel better - classic Mom. “We were a family who wrote letters,” she said, “And in the world we live in now, of texts and emails…there’s no sentimental value in that. And sentimental value, is a powerful thing. That’s why I wanted you to have those cards.”
Which is true. We were a letter-writing family. As a kid, I had boxes filled with cards written to me, and my mom confessed tonight she may have a near-closet filled with correspondence she’s received. That she’ll never throw them away, for the same reason those letters left me sobbing – the sentimental value in them is immeasurable, and more powerful than I certainly could have ever imagined.
No, I don’t think everyone needs to go out and write letters, or panic over all the ones they may have discarded over the years (whoops). But maybe to simply remember, in the vapid and often lonely world we live in, there’s still room for a box – or two – of reminders of what really matters.
Saturday, May 9, 2020
Farewell to Eden
The sign that hangs above the welcome desk is huge and shiny. “Welcome, Eastridge High Alum! Congrats on 20 Years!” 20 years, I muse; 20 fucking years. I receive my name-tag and pin it to my left lapel, then head down the tiled hallway towards the gymnasium. Christ, I think in amazement; it even smells the same.
I pause at the open doors. What the fuck am I doing here though, really, I think. But my heart picks up pace as I stand there, wondering the same thing I’ve wondered the whole journey here: if I’ll see her. If she remembers that secret pact that we made, all those years ago, as vividly as I do.
“You know I’ve always been in love with you, right,” I can hear the echo of her voice. We’re at the Lookout, passing the joint I’d nabbed from my older brother’s stash, staring up at the star-filled sky. I nod, “I know.” “But you’re leaving, and I’m leaving,” she continues. I nod, “This is true.” She sits up, her hair long and tumbling down her back. She looks at me, “I’ll probably never see you again.” I shrug, “Probably.” "Hey!" she grins, hitting me lightly. Then her face grows thoughtful. “Wait. Wait, okay. 20 years,” she says, “20 years. We’ll both go to the reunion-“
“Reunion?” I laugh, “I barely make it to school events as is-“
“Yes. Reunion,” she repeats loudly over me, poking me and laughing, “You’ll have pulled your shit together by then. Anyway, we'll both be there. You’ll look at me from across the floor, and I’ll look at you. And here's the deal: if we walk towards each other, we’ll take each other’s hands, drop everything in our lives, and run away together. Forever.”
I take a puff, exhale. “Why not just do that now?” Sarah frowns, “Because that’s not realistic.” I grin and look over at her, “And this 20-year-long game plan of yours, is?” She nods sagely, “Look, you’re with Dana. I’m with Brian. In two weeks, we all graduate. In college you’ll have more Dana’s, I’ll have more Brians. And then, you know. Life. Besides,” she says, curling her hair behind her ear, taking the spliff from my outreached hand, inhaling, “I like pacts. I like having a secret. I’ll even make it official, here-” She takes off her favorite ring and tucks it into my jean jacket pocket. “See?” she said, “How amazing do you feel now, having a pact with someone that no one else knows about?”
I can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. I pause, then slip off my silver chain bracelet. “Here,” I say, and she looks at it in surprise. “Come on. Wouldn’t be a pact if I didn’t give you something,” I say. Her smile spreads slowly, lighting up her whole face, “Yeah.” She holds it in her palm, then wraps her fingers around it, closing it from sight.
I hop to my feet, stretching my arms in feigned tiredness, and say, “So, I guess that's it then? See you in, what, 20 years, right?” “What! Dumbass!” she exclaims, laughing. She’s pulling me back down- her hair smelled of flowers-
I smile, feeling her ring near my heart, where it’s hung on a chain, tucked away, since that night. And I wonder the same thing I always do every time I feel it, look at it: if she’s worn my bracelet since then, too. If it’ll be around her wrist, when I see her.
I take a deep breath, and walk into the gym.
The dimness of the lights is pleasantly hazy above the packed floor. A DJ plays in the corner. Sounds of chatter and the perfume of booze gently swirl in the air. I stroll around the outskirts, sipping my drink, when someone taps my shoulder.
“Holy shit - Josh?”
I turn. I’m met with a beaming, dimpled smile and shock of curls. Before I know it, she’s pulling me in, hugging me so tight I can barely breathe. “I knew it was you, I fucking knew it,” her muffled voice says into my chest. “Hi, Marisa,” I say, chuckling. She breaks away, playfully hits me, “What the fuck! I can’t believe you actually came! Eileen, Mark, get over here!”
Before I know it, I’m being hugged, flanked, tousled - “Only took 20 years to get you to come to one of these things, huh Joshie?” - given a shot, then another. My ears fill with stories of marriage and families, careers and retirement dreams. But most of all, memories. Those four years of high school, where the only thing that seemed to matter was our crew’s friendship: me, Marisa, Mark, Eileen, and...Sarah.
"Hey," says Mark to me, "Remember that first day we all got together? Freshman year. Marisa and me are under that tree in the quad, waiting for this one to finally arrive," he claps me on the back for emphasis. I nod; the others smirk. "Then before you know it, this girl walks by. This beautiful girl. She must be new, we think; we don't recognize her. Marisa here, not one to ever hold back, calls out to her. We start talking. 'Sarah', she says her name is. Then Josh shows up, and that's when we knew: she was in. Anyone who can hold Josh's focus for more than 30 seconds, is in." Everyone is laughing in agreement. The reminiscing continues, an endless brook of happy babbling.
Sarah. I haven’t seen her yet. I’m assuming she’s off talking to people, like always. I keep looking around, my heart doing little leaps each time. Waiting for that moment when our eyes meet and we walk towards each other. How she’d grin wickedly at me in that moment, and we’d run out of here, away from the past 20 years of a foggy fever dream and into to a woken Eden.
“Course right after graduation, Josh here disappears,” Mark’s regaling. He shakes his head at me, “It was like you got on the plane straight from the ceremony. Where’d you even run off to, man? I heard so many rumors. South America, Asia, fucking Russia. Seducing socialites in between hedge funding and espionage.” He’s laughing, Marisa is protesting. Eileen pipes up, “Well, let’s be real. Of our whole graduating class, ‘Most Likely to Become an International Man of Mystery’ could only belong to Josh Evans.” I chuckle, but say only, “I traveled a bit, yeah.” Everyone grins. I clear my throat, saying, “Speaking of mystery, where’s uh, where’s Sarah at?”
The smiles fade. An odd hush falls over them. I search their faces, but eyes are averted, heads bowed. “What?” I say, my heart sinking a bit, “She couldn’t make it?” There’s a long pause. The music in the background seems to fill the void. Eileen answers, and her voice is low, gravelly. “She - she’s gone, Josh.” I take a step back, shake my head, “What?” “Yeah, man,” says Mark, nodding somberly, “Three years ago.” I stare at them all, hoping this is some stupid prank like we all used to play, that Marisa will break like she always did, and Sarah will pop up behind me and shout “BOO!”
But there’s nothing. Only that music, that goddamn music. The room is suddenly spinning. My legs are shaking. My throat feels swollen, maybe from the shards of my shattering heart. “You were off on your...travels, you know,” Marisa’s saying weakly, “No one knew how to reach you. No one’s known, really, not since we graduated. I guess we just assumed you...knew. And grieved in your own way. You were always like that, Josh.” “Right,” I say, “I, uh, I’m gonna go outside for a minu-“ My voice breaks, and in a daze, I stagger to the back exit.
It’s cold outside, or at least I guess it is; there’s snow and bare branches and dark sky, anyway, and my breath comes out in white wisps like winter has consumed my insides, too. But I can’t…feel anything. Not the chill of the air, not the tears on my cheeks. I can barely taste whatever this drink in my hand is. But I tilt it back and chug til it’s gone, then toss it aside into one of the piles of snow.
I angrily yank out the chain from under my clothes and take it off. Like a curled snake, it huddles in my palm, with Sarah’s ring at the center. As I stare at it, I can see Sarah from across the swell of parents and graduation gowns. Brian was at her side, they were taking pictures with their families. As she turned to fix her cap, our eyes met. With a grin, she waved to me, then pointed to her wrist, my bracelet twinkling in the sun. Then, she was gone, slipped away in the crowd. That was the last time I ever saw her. And it was all seeming so much like a dream, more than it ever had.
I hop over the side of the steps and tramp through the snow of the quad, coming to a stop at the first tree, the tree where I first ever set eyes on her. She stopped my heart in that moment, with that smile, that halo of hers. “Hi,” she’d said, “I’m Sarah.”
The tree has grown taller since that day, but there’s still some branches that hang low. I look down and let my palm turn over. The chain falls loose, hanging but from a single finger, Sarah’s ring at the end of it making it swing like a pendulum. I toss it up, and it hooks around one of the branches. I look up at it for a long moment, then with a nod of silent good-bye, I turn away and head back towards the steps, where I can see Marisa, Mark, and Eileen waiting for me.
I pause at the open doors. What the fuck am I doing here though, really, I think. But my heart picks up pace as I stand there, wondering the same thing I’ve wondered the whole journey here: if I’ll see her. If she remembers that secret pact that we made, all those years ago, as vividly as I do.
“You know I’ve always been in love with you, right,” I can hear the echo of her voice. We’re at the Lookout, passing the joint I’d nabbed from my older brother’s stash, staring up at the star-filled sky. I nod, “I know.” “But you’re leaving, and I’m leaving,” she continues. I nod, “This is true.” She sits up, her hair long and tumbling down her back. She looks at me, “I’ll probably never see you again.” I shrug, “Probably.” "Hey!" she grins, hitting me lightly. Then her face grows thoughtful. “Wait. Wait, okay. 20 years,” she says, “20 years. We’ll both go to the reunion-“
“Reunion?” I laugh, “I barely make it to school events as is-“
“Yes. Reunion,” she repeats loudly over me, poking me and laughing, “You’ll have pulled your shit together by then. Anyway, we'll both be there. You’ll look at me from across the floor, and I’ll look at you. And here's the deal: if we walk towards each other, we’ll take each other’s hands, drop everything in our lives, and run away together. Forever.”
I take a puff, exhale. “Why not just do that now?” Sarah frowns, “Because that’s not realistic.” I grin and look over at her, “And this 20-year-long game plan of yours, is?” She nods sagely, “Look, you’re with Dana. I’m with Brian. In two weeks, we all graduate. In college you’ll have more Dana’s, I’ll have more Brians. And then, you know. Life. Besides,” she says, curling her hair behind her ear, taking the spliff from my outreached hand, inhaling, “I like pacts. I like having a secret. I’ll even make it official, here-” She takes off her favorite ring and tucks it into my jean jacket pocket. “See?” she said, “How amazing do you feel now, having a pact with someone that no one else knows about?”
I can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. I pause, then slip off my silver chain bracelet. “Here,” I say, and she looks at it in surprise. “Come on. Wouldn’t be a pact if I didn’t give you something,” I say. Her smile spreads slowly, lighting up her whole face, “Yeah.” She holds it in her palm, then wraps her fingers around it, closing it from sight.
I hop to my feet, stretching my arms in feigned tiredness, and say, “So, I guess that's it then? See you in, what, 20 years, right?” “What! Dumbass!” she exclaims, laughing. She’s pulling me back down- her hair smelled of flowers-
I smile, feeling her ring near my heart, where it’s hung on a chain, tucked away, since that night. And I wonder the same thing I always do every time I feel it, look at it: if she’s worn my bracelet since then, too. If it’ll be around her wrist, when I see her.
I take a deep breath, and walk into the gym.
The dimness of the lights is pleasantly hazy above the packed floor. A DJ plays in the corner. Sounds of chatter and the perfume of booze gently swirl in the air. I stroll around the outskirts, sipping my drink, when someone taps my shoulder.
“Holy shit - Josh?”
I turn. I’m met with a beaming, dimpled smile and shock of curls. Before I know it, she’s pulling me in, hugging me so tight I can barely breathe. “I knew it was you, I fucking knew it,” her muffled voice says into my chest. “Hi, Marisa,” I say, chuckling. She breaks away, playfully hits me, “What the fuck! I can’t believe you actually came! Eileen, Mark, get over here!”
Before I know it, I’m being hugged, flanked, tousled - “Only took 20 years to get you to come to one of these things, huh Joshie?” - given a shot, then another. My ears fill with stories of marriage and families, careers and retirement dreams. But most of all, memories. Those four years of high school, where the only thing that seemed to matter was our crew’s friendship: me, Marisa, Mark, Eileen, and...Sarah.
"Hey," says Mark to me, "Remember that first day we all got together? Freshman year. Marisa and me are under that tree in the quad, waiting for this one to finally arrive," he claps me on the back for emphasis. I nod; the others smirk. "Then before you know it, this girl walks by. This beautiful girl. She must be new, we think; we don't recognize her. Marisa here, not one to ever hold back, calls out to her. We start talking. 'Sarah', she says her name is. Then Josh shows up, and that's when we knew: she was in. Anyone who can hold Josh's focus for more than 30 seconds, is in." Everyone is laughing in agreement. The reminiscing continues, an endless brook of happy babbling.
Sarah. I haven’t seen her yet. I’m assuming she’s off talking to people, like always. I keep looking around, my heart doing little leaps each time. Waiting for that moment when our eyes meet and we walk towards each other. How she’d grin wickedly at me in that moment, and we’d run out of here, away from the past 20 years of a foggy fever dream and into to a woken Eden.
“Course right after graduation, Josh here disappears,” Mark’s regaling. He shakes his head at me, “It was like you got on the plane straight from the ceremony. Where’d you even run off to, man? I heard so many rumors. South America, Asia, fucking Russia. Seducing socialites in between hedge funding and espionage.” He’s laughing, Marisa is protesting. Eileen pipes up, “Well, let’s be real. Of our whole graduating class, ‘Most Likely to Become an International Man of Mystery’ could only belong to Josh Evans.” I chuckle, but say only, “I traveled a bit, yeah.” Everyone grins. I clear my throat, saying, “Speaking of mystery, where’s uh, where’s Sarah at?”
The smiles fade. An odd hush falls over them. I search their faces, but eyes are averted, heads bowed. “What?” I say, my heart sinking a bit, “She couldn’t make it?” There’s a long pause. The music in the background seems to fill the void. Eileen answers, and her voice is low, gravelly. “She - she’s gone, Josh.” I take a step back, shake my head, “What?” “Yeah, man,” says Mark, nodding somberly, “Three years ago.” I stare at them all, hoping this is some stupid prank like we all used to play, that Marisa will break like she always did, and Sarah will pop up behind me and shout “BOO!”
But there’s nothing. Only that music, that goddamn music. The room is suddenly spinning. My legs are shaking. My throat feels swollen, maybe from the shards of my shattering heart. “You were off on your...travels, you know,” Marisa’s saying weakly, “No one knew how to reach you. No one’s known, really, not since we graduated. I guess we just assumed you...knew. And grieved in your own way. You were always like that, Josh.” “Right,” I say, “I, uh, I’m gonna go outside for a minu-“ My voice breaks, and in a daze, I stagger to the back exit.
It’s cold outside, or at least I guess it is; there’s snow and bare branches and dark sky, anyway, and my breath comes out in white wisps like winter has consumed my insides, too. But I can’t…feel anything. Not the chill of the air, not the tears on my cheeks. I can barely taste whatever this drink in my hand is. But I tilt it back and chug til it’s gone, then toss it aside into one of the piles of snow.
I angrily yank out the chain from under my clothes and take it off. Like a curled snake, it huddles in my palm, with Sarah’s ring at the center. As I stare at it, I can see Sarah from across the swell of parents and graduation gowns. Brian was at her side, they were taking pictures with their families. As she turned to fix her cap, our eyes met. With a grin, she waved to me, then pointed to her wrist, my bracelet twinkling in the sun. Then, she was gone, slipped away in the crowd. That was the last time I ever saw her. And it was all seeming so much like a dream, more than it ever had.
I hop over the side of the steps and tramp through the snow of the quad, coming to a stop at the first tree, the tree where I first ever set eyes on her. She stopped my heart in that moment, with that smile, that halo of hers. “Hi,” she’d said, “I’m Sarah.”
The tree has grown taller since that day, but there’s still some branches that hang low. I look down and let my palm turn over. The chain falls loose, hanging but from a single finger, Sarah’s ring at the end of it making it swing like a pendulum. I toss it up, and it hooks around one of the branches. I look up at it for a long moment, then with a nod of silent good-bye, I turn away and head back towards the steps, where I can see Marisa, Mark, and Eileen waiting for me.
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