The night air tastes wrong, wrong for here, and in the last light before dusk I can’t see that the leaves on the trees are the wrong shape or that the buildings are wrong, I don’t notice the uncovered mountains in the distance and I’m somewhere else.
I’m years ago. I’m riding my bike back to the dorm after class, at the music’s pounding way too loud and rolling over me like storm clouds, and everything’s great because everything’s new.
Then I’m on the phone with the girl, and we’re flirting like we’re gonna fuck next time I drive down, or she’s upset about her parents, or she won’t pick up the phone because he’s telling her it’ll just be another hour and her boyfriend can wait.
Then I’m all ragged edges but holding together, and the stitches are probably stronger than the skin. So I keep going because it’s not like I can get more lost, so I run from city to city whenever I start to recognize wherever I am, and I don’t mind. I can sleep on the bus even if I can’t at night. And I still think of Ireland every time it rains, and Edinburgh was a fairytale, and it was fun getting caught in a storm on some nameless mountain trail. But soon it’s all the same anyway, soon a few miles isn’t far enough, I’ve caught up with myself and I’m too tired anyway.
Then I’m in the cafe, with rings on fingers and bracelets from cheap occult stores and european street vendors, trying to read as my mind wanders and eyes go blurry, somewhere else, head more than half in a dream. I give up on a book and watch the people pass, watch them like they’re a new species I’ve never noticed, marvel to myself at how strange everything is and wondering how I missed it before.
Then it’s over, you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. Not like I know where home even is. They sold the house, and my mum’s little condo is strange. The city around it is ugly. But I’m leaving soon, this is just the waiting area.
I don’t miss the house, anyway. I miss my forest. The old oaks, first swamp and a little spring-fed stream, then climbing up the ridge, where old trees would fall and pull up their roots, leaving little dens perfect for building forts. The ground is always soft and a little wet. The birches, packed close and tight with thorn-covered undergrowth, marking the edge before the forest opened into meadow, with grass that grew up to your neck, where deer and bear and foxes would hide, where coyotes would play at night and howl like wolves.
The pools between them, with still water. That was home, once.
I miss the trail, which could take you somewhere else, take you somewhere to get a sandwich at the deli or ice cream in the village. Take you through the marsh, take you to the huge rock outcropping we’d climb up to get away. Take you to the huge vernal pond that would flood, where we’d swim in the rain after our clothes were already too muddy for it to matter anymore.
I miss the little back roads. Driving through the winding curves and hills in my dad’s car, trying to avoid getting back home or anywhere, trying to just keep going.
I miss my friend’s basement, and his family that was better than our’s, me and my other friend who they basically adopted. I’d never eaten family dinners before, I was so confused when my friend’s dad crashed the car into the garage and his mother made him tea and checked to see if he was alright instead of screaming. I was so on edge, for years, even though there was always a bed made up and they never yelled at me for anything, even though they were always smiling and happy. Their house felt so full, and alive, not like mine.
I miss it all, but I left, because it’s not really the place that I miss, it’s me. I remember who I was in all those places, in all those times. How crazy this night air made me, how desperate and alive.
Here it’s been different. I’ve been different. It feels like I’ve been asleep, like I can’t remember what I’ve been doing all this time. But I’m feeling different, maybe better, although the pangs of feeling can be staggering. It hurts to matter.
Why now, anyway?
Loading comments...