springtime blues
and phoenix friends
as nature defrosts, so too does my memory of the crowns we made out of the flowers in the courtyard—the dainty white daisies. slitting the stems just so with our thumbnails ; weaving the next stalk through the opening, creating a chain. this takes a patience i haven’t been practicing lately, what with my mind restless and my hands uncharacteristically unsteady these days—too heavy a touch, and the loop tears or the filaments of the pedicel disintegrate, too threadbare to hold the bind ; papery ivory florets fall off the central disk ; canary-colored pollen dusts my lap.
you looked like a fairy princess when we eventually had enough of a garland to place atop your head. pretty—you ; this sight—despite the circumstances ; the conditions. of the crinkled cotton—perhaps polyester too—the pale periwinkle you’ve been dressed in. treading in a sea of blues ; in rubber-soled socks. telepathically, i repeat : keep swimming—please. a selfish plea, perhaps, knowing the impossibility of fully comprehending or being able to lift the burden of someone else’s pain—but it’s the only one i can make.
it was still march, its final days, when we got the news. when i knew immediately, without it being spoken explicitly. what did that say ? the tartness of the lemon meringue, pleasantly tingling my tongue just seconds ago, suddenly puckering in my mouth—too much. i typically find solace in the rainy weather, but on that day the brume felt stereotypically dismal, as if contracting all of our tears at once.
i’d so much rather this be a cruel, insensitive joke than a reality, but i keep checking the calendar—days, minutes, hours—and eventually april first has come and gone. a sick joke, indeed.
it started in the fourth grade, the amorphous sorrow that i tend to sense swelling this time of year. counterintuitively dejecting, the season feels laden with premature nostalgia, brimming with bittersweet in a way that feels unsettling somehow—overstimulating, almost unbearably so. this year is a further testament—foreboding congealed—the humid air engulfing us, moisture vying for our oxygen. we’re swatting a swarm of gnats as we walk—it looked to be a picture-perfect day through the shatterproof glass, but now that we’re here, out of doors, reality has crept up ; followed ; is crawling all over us. everything is itchy ; there are too many layers.
there’s finally sunshine, sure, but the surge of color springing forth in the wake of this month’s showers feels somewhat stifling—spectral—a new arc-en-ciel composed of the scars, the orange fanta, the tarte citron, the daisy-studded pelouse, the royal blue iron gate, the indigo, the pale periwinkle.
the grounds were mostly deserted, but easter decorations were still up : pastel cutouts of eggs and bunnies and carrots—forlorn resurrection. it’s quite lovely here, i suppose—there are beekeepers, tennis courts, even an art museum ; plenty to explore. you might imagine you had stumbled upon a secret garden, sans tourists, where one was at last free to stroll across the lawn. still, i can’t quite tell if the serenity is more bucolic or eerie—or what this place must truly feel like for you, once we leave. the air in the building has its own, more obviously unnerving quality, and maybe it’s partially that contrast that i find so vertigo-inducing about the springtime—the way spaces feel more claustrophobic, bleaker, upon reentry. another woman in periwinkle emerges across the way and takes a seat with her guest, reminding us of the conditional freedom of this particular oasis.
sitting at our picnic table among the flowers, overgrown meadow tickling our pant hems, we talk about mundane, lighthearted things—video games and graphic novels. i hope the levity we’ve collectively committed to is a welcome distraction, an assurance of the enduring normalcy of our friendship, and not perceived as uncomfortable avoidance or pity. i trust that you know we’re here for you and with you in every way.
weeks prior, i had noticed nail polish chipping. a new tattoo sleeve, too. i’m used to being overly paranoid, so i hoped the concern was an abundance of caution—irrational.
but then there were 4:00 a.m. ashtrays and searching for a light ; underground clubs and catacombs ; quieting coal mines.
bridges
burns
blisters
bandages
blades of grass, with which we were now trying to whistle.
trying not to stare but acutely aware of the elephants in the room ; of the coroplast rabbits on stakes.
“we LOVE YOU!” echoing through our cupped hands as we turn away, tearful ; as you smile and wave from the doorway, summoned to dinner.
we exit through the same imposing iron gate we’ve entered a couple of times now ; the remaining two of us then talked of train tracks and loss and impending transitions and uncertainty and the helpless feeling of having no answers or solutions other than empathy and solidarity. all we can do right now is be with each other.
the cosmopolitan chaos collapses in on your chest in a new way in the aftermath ; once you’ve been intimately reminded of what the frequent wails of sirens really mean—a crisis ; a cataclysmic cacophony no longer able to slip seamlessly into the city’s charming backing vocals.
do you realize that there’s nothing in the fabric of my current existence you haven’t touched ? going about the day means seeing you around every corner ; in inanimate objects, even : the metro line we took together ; the gelato you also like ; the benches where we shared our sandwiches ; the language you speak more fluently than any of us ; the aisles of monoprix, where the other day i stood frozen, picking out some snacks to drop off, settling on a box of ersatz fig newtons—hoping they would transport you to more joyous days and not become negatively linked to this setting going forward, by the time the joy really does triumph. because those days will return ; i have to believe that. selfishly i have to, because i feel the two of us to be similar in many ways, only you’re wiser, better, infinitely more perceptive than me. so what did that mean ?
back home, crocuses were in bloom, barbara said over email. people were pleased, amidst all the apparently requisite rejoice and renewal of the season. there seems to be no way to explain it all, to really convey it to anyone not experiencing it—or having experienced something similar themselves—not that i necessarily want to. i can’t fault them for not seeming to understand, of course ; i wish that nobody ever had to, and i know that they must feel a similar way about all the things that i inevitably, in turn, can’t seem to understand firsthand, either—but it feels isolating, disillusioning, nevertheless. the transatlantic phone calls have become hollower—the frivolities a charade that you now have the impression the ones on the other end of the line are taking much more seriously than you. have they really known no nihilism ? your default languages are no longer the same, you realize.
there’s still so much that remains unearthed ; that i can’t possibly know and that you can’t possibly know, about the details of that night and those days ; the dreams ; all the thoughts that flit through our respective minds at any given moment.
that the letter you wrote me a year later still hangs on my wall. that you’ve changed my life for the better, too—although this, i hope, you know.
many more joyous days have, indeed, come—songs and soulmates and roses and rings.
from the ash you rose.
how did you do it?
how do we?
i know that we will ; we have to—we must keep alchemizing the sensitivity and struggle into fiery sunbeams ; beacons of hope. flames aren’t merely destructive, and there can always be a new beginning. the galvanizing golden rays, just as the conciliatory cloud cover, may not be eternal, but they will always return.
still—it’s just a question.
