Air

February 9, 2009
By
More by this author
I feel the air blow past my face as I sit beneath and watch the most horrific sunrise I have ever witnessed, a representation of the last twenty-three days. No, scratch that, the last three and a half months. Maybe even longer. The sunrise is green and grey and not any color that a sunrise should be. It reminds me of the days that I sat in my closet and shut the door and didn't think about anything else except how to fix this. I cannot remember the last time I was happy. Except for now. I can't believe this is happening. I can't believe'we're happening. It's really happening. Wait, this is really happening?! No, it's not. That was a joke. That whole night, that whole ordeal, it was all a lie.


We sit on a porch deck ' wood, maybe cedar? The wood is lightly stained and a little scratched but it's still beautiful. The air is harsh, as most five a.m. air is, but it still caresses your face in a way that only the combination of oxygen and things released into it could. You're sitting next to me but we don't say a word. I think it's better that way. I sit and I breathe and I take in all of the feelings I have experienced in such a short period of time. I still cannot believe it has only been twenty-three days. Can you believe how much has changed? Our song was short and sweet but it still sings in my head every so often. You're with her, I get that, but it should have been me. It still can be me: not that I want it to be. You're a jerk. That sunrise I just watched, it told me that I can do better. I think I already found how. Now, if only I could get you to see that too'


This particular air reminds me of the time that we went to the playground and we ran and ran and ran and ran until we were out of breath and we fell on the ground. It was hot, but you still came and put your arm around me as we looked up at the clouds. We laid still: the silence deafened me more than anything ever had. We reached for the clouds as if they were pillows waiting to be placed carefully beneath our heads. I curled up in a ball and laid my head on your chest. There I stayed; it was a feeling of both complacency and utter nervousness. I didn't want to be at home with you, yet here I was. Mi casa es su casa. I let you get up inside my head, lodge yourself in my brain, and now you don't want to leave because it's comfortable.


As I tell you that this is the last time you'll see me in this state of vulnerability, I begin to see the fear really lodge inside your eyes. I can't believe this: you're scared to be without me. I walk down the driveway and turn onto the sidewalk. The air of a Sunday morning hits my face, harsher than it did an hour ago. The air is the memory; the air is the photo album in which the pictures of my life are stored. I don't take them down from the shelf unless they fall and hit me in the face. In this case, your album is being placed on the highest shelf in hopes that no one will ever be able to even try to knock it down. The memories will not defeat me.





Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback