I’m sheltered by wood and tacks. The rim of smoke feels like a thick cloud; like somehow substantial pieces of air begin to integrate, yet smell of a worn down gas station. Behind the middle school there’s a pavilion but the structure of the building doesn’t look so formal anymore. The wood’s fading; cracks appear on the walls and outer roofing. This place has aged entirely. Each gust of breath becomes stronger and stronger until I actually believe it’s pushing me. “Stop,” I insist and I hear his cynical laugh fading in and out of a husky cough.
The rusty smell must come from the water fountain peeling from the side of the wall. It won't last another year I think. I'll give it 2 years. I stare in disbelief. I feel like I'm so slowly losing this place. I count the pillars that sustain the roof even though I know well enough how many there are. 1. 2. 3. 4. But wait that third one. It was this one, this one in the far corner that has the inscriptions from random adolescence. I want to point at it to make a statement, maybe slap him once or twice and force him to look and discover it again. But I can’t act like I’ve paid enough attention to that piece of my childhood recently to take its side. It would be very hypocritical of me. We’ve all drifted from that age and I’m guilty to have taken the side of the one’s who dragged me away from it. My mind situates somberly on that pillar, so colorful, probably the only color there is to this pavilion. It’s so far away. My leg slides away from me, and I know immediately that that was a subconscious warning to pick myself up and run.
I focus solemnly on that third pillar, fraught to ignore the excessive smoke assaulting my body. I can’t distinguish them, but I remember the bold and daring self expressing depictions scratched and colored all over the column. It's not like a tree, it's not as authentic, I assume, but it captures the same purpose. I remember drawing small pictures of stick figures and cats and laughing when I see that someone else added to my illustration or wrote speech bubbles giving it humorous annotations. The pillar explained people, or in actuality how people used to be, but it was abandoned.
That last exhale tickles my ear, exasperating me. Most likely smoke is rendering my brain into stone. I’m frozen. I think of how we were children, so young and audacious and now altered to act nothing like ourselves. The pillar explained it all, that’s how we truly are: vibrant and elating. This is something of an insult, the smoke being blown into my face; an insult to our childhood and the basis of our relationship. I slightly turn to see his impaired gaze and the distaste of his expression. What are you doing to yourself? The cigarette seems almost weightless, it seemingly floats gravitationally back up to his lips like there’s no hope for there to be enough. I see the shiver. His dry lips quiver and he coughs, bringing his fist to cover his mouth. He’s killing himself and this pavilion, they all were, all of his childish friends. The endless smoke trails have probably already soaked into the walls slowly going to burn this structure to the ground. I look at the water fountain. I change my mind; I’ll give you a year. My head bobbles and I sigh unevenly. “This is really stupid,” I can’t oblige myself to be at ease because I’m very alarmed.
He smirks. “Here, try it,” he coughs. My intention isn’t there but I stare at the cigarette held at my chest in inquisitiveness. I think of my parents. There’s a part of me that’s always been appalled by smoking and acts stringently against it and then another part of me that’s hushed because I’ve never actually been in this kind of situation. What am I doing? I’m essentially considering it. I reflect about religion and how much it is a significant element of my life. I love God. I love God and my parents, but I’m more worried about my parents. I suppose God would forgive me but I have no expectations from my parents. As liberal as I am, I’m always restrained in a conservative life. I’m a guilt ridden person and that has always been the truth of me. My judgment is constantly based on my future which keeps me in check. And I remember how I’m not judged for what my thoughts portray but how I act upon them. That’s fine. I’m not going to do it. I’m not stupid.
I glare at what he holds in his hand so steadily, so leisurely, and I wonder how much practice he must have had to be capable to grasp it so casually. He’s changed and I deny that it was right before my eyes but I don’t deny that I’ve been oblivious. I feel my face stuck in a profound expression and I let out a small noise in nihilism.
“I’m feeling sick.” The combination of odium, smoke, and foul rust agitates my stomach. I stand up and rub a drop of sweat from my temple. “Can you please stop this,” my eyes sat in sorrow, seeing him like this greatly affected my perception of who he really is or, more so, who he gladly became. He wasn’t at all like this before and I critic myself through the people I’m around so I will not agree that I’m friends with a pot head. This isn’t the friend I fell in love with. I’m not associating myself with that because it is not at all me. Not at all.
So do something.
“Chill out,” he responds.
“So is that a no?”
I wait long enough for a response I should have known I would never get and leave him to rot. I pull out my phone and look at a blank screen “My mom called anyway,” I pause sensing my feet itch. I purse my lips and walk in a direction far away from him.
Long wooden benches stand on either side of the long narrow path, swallowing me deeper into what seems like steps back in time. I see it, the colors, the nearly misplaced memories. It stands tall and looks exactly the same way as I left it, so close but so far to the way we all left it. It doesn’t even look like the smoke has touched it, and it’s like this is the only thing that’s going to survive the fire. It’s glowing.
I dare myself to turn around and see if he merely cares, or better yet understands that I’m unhappy with him, but his back faces me. I look back at the pillar and I wish I have a pencil or something, but I can’t mark my ended absence. I read and look over everything and I’m taken through it again. I came back, and I think I’m the first and that gives me a sense of pride. To give my ego vigor, I wish I can write something. I think of the words I would right, something like “remember when this was cool.” I even think of something as gallant as ‘You’re not cool because you smoke’, but I don’t really need to feed my ego. I find contentment through knowing that God knows I came back, and my guilt has no where to sleep but the vanishing, smoldering walls of the pavilion. And I pray that He makes it possible that the third pillar lives on to see the ash.
The rusty smell must come from the water fountain peeling from the side of the wall. It won't last another year I think. I'll give it 2 years. I stare in disbelief. I feel like I'm so slowly losing this place. I count the pillars that sustain the roof even though I know well enough how many there are. 1. 2. 3. 4. But wait that third one. It was this one, this one in the far corner that has the inscriptions from random adolescence. I want to point at it to make a statement, maybe slap him once or twice and force him to look and discover it again. But I can’t act like I’ve paid enough attention to that piece of my childhood recently to take its side. It would be very hypocritical of me. We’ve all drifted from that age and I’m guilty to have taken the side of the one’s who dragged me away from it. My mind situates somberly on that pillar, so colorful, probably the only color there is to this pavilion. It’s so far away. My leg slides away from me, and I know immediately that that was a subconscious warning to pick myself up and run.
I focus solemnly on that third pillar, fraught to ignore the excessive smoke assaulting my body. I can’t distinguish them, but I remember the bold and daring self expressing depictions scratched and colored all over the column. It's not like a tree, it's not as authentic, I assume, but it captures the same purpose. I remember drawing small pictures of stick figures and cats and laughing when I see that someone else added to my illustration or wrote speech bubbles giving it humorous annotations. The pillar explained people, or in actuality how people used to be, but it was abandoned.
That last exhale tickles my ear, exasperating me. Most likely smoke is rendering my brain into stone. I’m frozen. I think of how we were children, so young and audacious and now altered to act nothing like ourselves. The pillar explained it all, that’s how we truly are: vibrant and elating. This is something of an insult, the smoke being blown into my face; an insult to our childhood and the basis of our relationship. I slightly turn to see his impaired gaze and the distaste of his expression. What are you doing to yourself? The cigarette seems almost weightless, it seemingly floats gravitationally back up to his lips like there’s no hope for there to be enough. I see the shiver. His dry lips quiver and he coughs, bringing his fist to cover his mouth. He’s killing himself and this pavilion, they all were, all of his childish friends. The endless smoke trails have probably already soaked into the walls slowly going to burn this structure to the ground. I look at the water fountain. I change my mind; I’ll give you a year. My head bobbles and I sigh unevenly. “This is really stupid,” I can’t oblige myself to be at ease because I’m very alarmed.
He smirks. “Here, try it,” he coughs. My intention isn’t there but I stare at the cigarette held at my chest in inquisitiveness. I think of my parents. There’s a part of me that’s always been appalled by smoking and acts stringently against it and then another part of me that’s hushed because I’ve never actually been in this kind of situation. What am I doing? I’m essentially considering it. I reflect about religion and how much it is a significant element of my life. I love God. I love God and my parents, but I’m more worried about my parents. I suppose God would forgive me but I have no expectations from my parents. As liberal as I am, I’m always restrained in a conservative life. I’m a guilt ridden person and that has always been the truth of me. My judgment is constantly based on my future which keeps me in check. And I remember how I’m not judged for what my thoughts portray but how I act upon them. That’s fine. I’m not going to do it. I’m not stupid.
I glare at what he holds in his hand so steadily, so leisurely, and I wonder how much practice he must have had to be capable to grasp it so casually. He’s changed and I deny that it was right before my eyes but I don’t deny that I’ve been oblivious. I feel my face stuck in a profound expression and I let out a small noise in nihilism.
“I’m feeling sick.” The combination of odium, smoke, and foul rust agitates my stomach. I stand up and rub a drop of sweat from my temple. “Can you please stop this,” my eyes sat in sorrow, seeing him like this greatly affected my perception of who he really is or, more so, who he gladly became. He wasn’t at all like this before and I critic myself through the people I’m around so I will not agree that I’m friends with a pot head. This isn’t the friend I fell in love with. I’m not associating myself with that because it is not at all me. Not at all.
So do something.
“Chill out,” he responds.
“So is that a no?”
I wait long enough for a response I should have known I would never get and leave him to rot. I pull out my phone and look at a blank screen “My mom called anyway,” I pause sensing my feet itch. I purse my lips and walk in a direction far away from him.
Long wooden benches stand on either side of the long narrow path, swallowing me deeper into what seems like steps back in time. I see it, the colors, the nearly misplaced memories. It stands tall and looks exactly the same way as I left it, so close but so far to the way we all left it. It doesn’t even look like the smoke has touched it, and it’s like this is the only thing that’s going to survive the fire. It’s glowing.
I dare myself to turn around and see if he merely cares, or better yet understands that I’m unhappy with him, but his back faces me. I look back at the pillar and I wish I have a pencil or something, but I can’t mark my ended absence. I read and look over everything and I’m taken through it again. I came back, and I think I’m the first and that gives me a sense of pride. To give my ego vigor, I wish I can write something. I think of the words I would right, something like “remember when this was cool.” I even think of something as gallant as ‘You’re not cool because you smoke’, but I don’t really need to feed my ego. I find contentment through knowing that God knows I came back, and my guilt has no where to sleep but the vanishing, smoldering walls of the pavilion. And I pray that He makes it possible that the third pillar lives on to see the ash.
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