How Dare You?
On Death, Family, Friends and the unperfect universe.
Nadiia Ploshchenko on Unsplash
“The strangeness of Time. Not in its passing, which can seem infinite, like a tunnel whose end you can’t see, whose beginning you’ve forgotten, but in the sudden realization that something finite, has passed, and is irretrievable.”
― Joyce Carol Oates, Foxfire: Confessions of a Girl Gang —
I was a child.
I was scared. I staggered to reach the bathroom, but my reflection changed. I laughed. Where was I? What do I remember? Was I sneaking out to buy jawbreakers? Was I drinking fake beer with my friends? Or was I drunk for the first time?
I lost myself between the 10th of November 1997 and the 20th of August 2021.
I closed my eyes and lived between borrowed times.
The boat rocked, water splashed onto my face, a blurred vision of my parents and grandparents laughing at me. Was I two? I wish I knew. Knew that in three years, grandma would be gone.
I built my memories from puzzle pieces given by family and friends; the photo albums revealed the flamboyant personality emerging from the black and white pictures. I was a five-year-old, and it was my first encounter with Death. I was unaware of her, but she had taken my grandma, and for that, I hated her.
I closed my eyes and ran. Time was unclear, but memories were my compass, scared I looked over my shoulder, tripped and smashed my face against the year 2016.
We sat around the table, laughed at my uncle’s joke, the melted cheese and the smell of the fresh Christmas tree. My phone vibrated. I walked upstairs to my bedroom and answered. Life knocked me down.
Two of my friends had been in a car accident. The sun had blinded them and a truck had crashed into their car. The red laces girl was gone, and a flower fell asleep for two days.
I sat and stared at the untouched white wall, staggered my way to the window, and looked at the darkness that hid in the sky. I felt small and oppressed. My chest tightened.
I dragged myself and carried on running, but something was lurking upon my shadow. The denial built over the years had revealed an inner demon, someone hiding and ready to strangle me at the slightest moment of weakness.
I had days when I tried to hold it all together. If I had let go, no one, nothing, could have put me back together. I slowly lost control of my panic attacks.
Isai Ramos on Unsplash
Call me melancholic or romantic, but everything that I’ve done, do, will, is dedicated to them, The Red Laces Girl and my Grandma. They were two beautiful and unstoppable women, lead by their beliefs, and there was not a day where I didn’t close my eyes and ask “Would you be proud? Did I make you happy?”
In a perfect universe, you would have read Axelle’s poems, smiled at her surprising personality, felt inspired by her confidence, and watched The Dead Poet Society a thousand times. This is not a perfect world, and for now, you will have to settle with a quote she said: “Who are the stars? Who nibbles at the moon with their euphoric desires? I gave my beautiful face to the rain of happy days”.
But fear aroused each time I looked at people that I knew; ashes and dust composed of memories and love. I stopped running to observe the world. And as I read between the pages of my childhood, I sang Stop This Train.
