I wonder if she
knows she had mountains behind her.
She’s always had
mountains behind her.
But you wouldn’t
know it looking at her. Not at first at least. She maneuvered through life as
though she were walking up mountains instead- bracing the wind or trudging
through snow. I’m certain she can’t help
it, you know? It’s just the best she’s
ever been able to do.
She’s always had
to really muster up the strength to do most anything. By the time she finished
one thing, she’d be too tired for whatever came next. I noticed this when we were young. Shifting positions, talking, and writing. It
all took such effort. Walking quite literally took the air out of her. When she would arrive at her destination, she
would slump into her chair or against the wall and close her eyes. She would breathe in and breathe out, slowly
and rhythmically. Watching her made me
ache. Her frailness, a thin stature that
seemed incapable of withholding everything she had been through. It always
seemed like too much for her. I remember thinking this the first time I saw
her. I remember that day like it was just yesterday. We were 6. She had to bend
down to hoist up her socks. They were
striped every color of the rainbow.
Socks are sold one size fits all, but she was far from all. I would often
wade behind her, waiting for her to finish adjusting them. She always seemed to stay on the ground for
just a little too long, staring at her feet, as if waiting for the socks to
gain enough strength to stay up on their own. I think I fell in love with her then. Her
struggle. I fell in love with all the
catches. I worried one day she would make
her way down to fix them and in her final letdown, find herself unable to get
back up. Even at our young age, I had
acquired this inherent need to be there to pick her up, just in case one day
she found she was unable to rise from the ground. I felt it my duty, really. I loved her and
her socks. She always found her way back
upright though, then gradually rolled on like fog, dissipating into whatever
was next. Just looking at her, you could tell she had known the weight of the
world before she was even born into it.
But my god, she
was beautiful. She had bones of glass,
and air draped around her. She was thin,
blessed with ridges and valleys in her hips, back and thighs, where bone
married her flesh. Her skin was reminiscent of opal, flecks of aquamarine in
the midst of the purples, and yellows underneath her alabaster skin. She was a
tortured vortex, trapped in a watercolor painting. She didn’t smile much. She maintained a passive expression on her
face, but to the knowing eye, nothing passed through her mind without excruciating
attention. She wore her hair in braids. She’d fashioned them that way since we were
young. They cascaded over her shoulder blades, winding through all the indents
and alongside all the shadows of her chest.
Her hair was long, and her mother was never there, so naturally like the
survivor she was, she learned to braid. It
kept her hair out of her narrowed green eyes, and allowed them to stay fixed on
what was in front of her. I think that’s
why she still wears them like that over ten years later. She is 16 now, braids to her side, still looking
forward.
She has the
mountains behind her. She may proceed
uncertainly at times, but they stand unwaveringly, ready to support her. It’s late, and all these things run through
my head as I look to her now. She’s catching the red-eye bus to San Francisco
where she might be able to disappear. She
had told me stories of people that had gone there to start over, and it was the
only idea that really propelled her forward anymore. She’s looking around, and I keep my hat
down. I told her I’d let her leave with
neither protest nor struggle. I know she
loved me, but she needed to find love for herself. I wanted that more for her than I wanted her
for myself. She needed to fulfill her dreams of anonymity so that she may
reclaim a purpose. She told me that in
her room once, last year. It was rainy
out. I traced my fingers down the peaks
of her spine, and all along her bare back while she lay motionless on my
chest. I lost my purpose, she said. I have become a product of the consequences
from merely being born, and I need to reclaim my choice in life. I had never been much of talker, so I simply
said okay or something of that nature.
She needed this, and I loved her.
So we didn’t talk much after that, and now she’s here. And I’m here, standing in the shadows as I have
always done, watching, making sure she doesn’t stay on the ground too
long.
It’s almost time
now and I see her fondling the bus pass in her hand, massaging the corners like
a baby blanket. That ticket is her free
pass to becoming anyone else. She had
those same socks on that she had worn so many years ago, finally holding their
own and bracing her ankles, ready to take these next steps with her. I was out of view, but I wondered if she
could feel me like I could feel her. She
had her sketch pad in her left hand, and her blue backpack hanging off her
shoulder. It had held beers that got us
drunk for the first time, various outfits for her to change into so that she might
escape her house without being slurred at, called trash, or being told she was
asking for whatever came to her. It had
held letters we had written each other our first year of high school. Now it held nothing and because of that, it
held everything. I could see her starting
to fade out already, her past dissolving away.
The bus driver walked by her, and I could hear him mention something
about needing to be careful riding a bus so late and being so young. She brushed her braid back nervously and
thanked him for his concern. He pulled
on his suspenders and asked if anyone knew she was here. A mom? Boyfriend? Anyone to see you off? I
heard him inquire. No mom, she
said. Then she hesitated. The boyfriend
word had never been comfortable to her. She suddenly dropped to the ground. I
lurched forward, ready to be there to pick her up. She pretended to adjust her perfectly in
place socks, staying focused on the ground holding her up. He looked at this strange, beautiful vessel
on the ground, shrugged and walked away. Kids these days, he must be thinking.
The bus revved up. All aboard! I checked my watch. It was time. People started to line up now, eager
to seek new beginnings, and maybe looking to get away from old ones. She stayed
there for a while, almost too long, looking at her shoes. Just as I began to move from my post, she
stood. She stood tall, and she
smiled. She took her braids out and
shook out that long brown hair. She
stood in line, and awaited her turn.
Suspender guy looked at her, smiled, took her pass, stamped it, and
handed it back to her. She thanked him back, then turned to her right. My first instinct was to turn away, wade back
the way I always had. She smiled at me
and winked. She winked. I had never seen her do that before. I knew I could get on that bus. I had already bought a pass, just in case she
couldn’t get up on her own. But now she
was standing, smiling and winking. She didn’t
even look winded. What was she trying to say to me? Did she need me? Or was this her being reborn, and telling me
she had what she needed now? She did
what she did best and disappeared into thin air, vanishing through the door and
taking her seat on the bus. I don’t know
if I ever really knew her. I guess some people aren’t meant to be known by
anyone but themselves. Suspender guy called last call and I stared at my
ticket.
I looked up at the
bus. That girl had mountains in her now. She’d
always had the mountains in her.
First Short Story
.K SG C.
