Flaws

There was no hand.  She leaned against the grey wall, arms crossed head down.  Black flats tapped solemnly against the ridged wall, counting the seconds alone.  Looking through the bangs that separated her from reality, only the unflawed exterior shaded her from the looks.  Quiet, she was known to be.  Shy and smart.  Words that described but failed to know.  Sounds that resonated in an empty husk.

No one knew her except the words she had written.  And the music.  Both worlds that existed outside the hallway she lived in.  It wasn't that others hadn't tried to know her, but she had failed them.  Because it was the right thing to do.  Her choices were the right choices because they were not easy.

Forgetting

There was no pain.  An echo sounded and he knew nothing.  He would never know the fleeting touches of passion, he would never hear the pitter-patter of rain as he walked slowly to school.  He would never get the chance to grow.  To sing.  To dance.  To hold.  To love.  His life was brief.  It is in these times that we lose faith.  Maybe there is no God.  Maybe we are lost.

For us, there is pain.  Our world echoes around us and we are brought to our knees by our inability to do anything.  For that brief moment we feel everything.  We feel the bullet as it burrows deep inside of us, shattering us as we are left disabled.  Maybe we are actually all disabled but we lie to ourselves, fooling ourselves into thinking that we can do anything, we are invincible.  We forget the pain, locking it away and throwing away the key.  And with it we lose the chance to grow.

When we forget, because we do, he returns to nothing.  We turn to sports, to studies, to music.  We burrow our pain away and embrace the fleeting experiences that dot our lives.  We sing.  We dance.  We hold.  We love.  We forget.

Benches

The bench I sit on every morning was always empty before I came there. Sometimes I imagine that in the afternoon, long after I leave, a couple will sit here and talk about their still, innocent love. They kiss, both lost in their memories of the other, their hands intertwining before they leave to continue on with their lives. But in the morning, with dew glistening on every grass, a faint scent of the bench's Norwegian Wood is my only company. It always brings me back to our memories, once so close to the couple I always pictured here. I sit back with my feet barely brushing the dew off the grass, content in the feel of your presence with me, if only for a moment.

Your eyes glistened and reflected the night sky. As I held you, you shook with sadness.

That's my memory. For all the clear memories of imperfection that enthralled my every thought so long ago, only your eyes remain in my mind. They were black, but that night, a light hint of blue danced around in them. When you turned to me, eyes burning, I held you as we collapsed into one another, both our shirts stained dark with the trail of tears. You told me that night not to speak, just to hold your dark yellow dress. You held yourself close, sinking into me and your eyes held onto me.

Some dozen or so years later, the smell of Norwegian Wood still invades me just as easily as it did when we spent the night under our tree. The first time it hit me was days before two towers were struck down. It was a quiet day, absent of noise. We spent the day looking for an apartment for me to move into and our hopes were teetering on the very last of twenty or so one bedroom apartments that were located around our neighborhood, New Orleans, in 2001.

We strolled side by side to the last apartments and stopped on our way at our local Coffee Shop. you ordered your usual slice of cake along with some hot tea. It was a clear Sunday evening in the humid South near the end of April. Students studied nearby, chatting about music and the arts, anything to avoid math.

When you walked into the apartment, you were quiet and so was I. It was messy, unkempt. The landlord had long ago forgotten about this room in favor of the larger ones that he kept clean for his tenants. It was perfect, it smelled of Norwegian Wood.

"We need to get this place, it's only 5 minutes from my house and closer to our tree" you said. 'the smell is hitting me, Take ME it screams at me, I can't leave this place without it. I know that we'll always remember this place because it will be ours.' with a frown, I walked into the room, eyeing for any blemish, any unsightly area. Nothing. 'We'll paint it blue, together!' I must have made a funny face I guess because she burst into laughter and dragged me to the landlord, demanding a contract, knowing she had won. He made us wait outside, so we sat on a bench, holding hands as our soon to be landlord printed out the contract. Five minutes later and it was ours, the deal was done.

Even now, the looming tree serves as a reflection of who we are and how we are connected. I imagine that when we first sat under it, our thoughts were not as similar as I had thought them to be when I was young. That does not matter now, but someday, I hope to ask you what you were thinking when you first saw it. We shared many forgotten memories under this tree; the lost conversations, the days when what was important was not why we were there or what we were doing, but the fact that we were there together.

Sometimes, I will wake up to a vivid memory of us with every detail as clear as the day it happened; the speckles of dirt that spotted your face on the day when you jumped in front of me to surprise me and went straight from a witty grin to a nervous embarrassed smile. Your lower lip just barely visible as you bit it and shyly looked away, my teenage self unable to realize what I had done wrong until midway through a thought you grabbed me and, kissed me, we both were as a bright as the painted red walls behind us when we heard whistles around us. Mostly, I wake up and recall a bit of lost memory; the feel of the faded yellow dress you only wore that last time we were there; I had bought it as a gift just that day at the thrift store on the way. Today, faded yellow dresses still line the walls where we bought your dress, but the store now goes by a new name.

The last time I left our tree, these memories were all together, every moment I thought of you it was like a fast forward through the scents that all combined into you. Now, even as I stare at the drifting leaves of our tree, the memories that were once so many I now desperately reach out to grasp them, hoping to hold them for moments longer before they slip away. The bark of the willow tree is scarred by our marks, made by the knife that now sits in the waters of the Mississippi; maybe had I not thrown it away would another of our memory still be with me. But this tree is all that is left of us.

The train left St. Charles Station every morning at 7:33a.m. Everyday, he arrived at 7:29 and took the seat right next to her. Everyday, he wore his tailored suit with his matching briefcase, a hollow shadow of his former self. Everyday, she wore a different bold red dress. That was her color, red. When he was twenty, that was his color. When the sun burned just above the horizon, he would wake up to the screams and groans of his neighbors. His uniform, long ago cast away with the memories of his fellow soldiers, was stained red. Every day he unknowingly bathed in red, showered by the complaints and fears of his comrades.

She sits alone in the cafe, surrounded by the chatter of students as they study for their particular exams. Inside, she's angry. A hand touches another and she wants to scream and rip out her hair and punch them. An awkward glance between two strangers and she cries inside, wishing only for that lost innocence she once had. Two people sit down unnecessarily close to each other. Doubt wraps around her own mind, and loss. It kills her. Those little moments that she does not have. She has never had. Instead, she looks up and smiles, chatting with her friends as she sits alone.

The day I spent empty

That place upon a hill looking out at the world. The mountain, screaming as you choke with tears. Empty. At the sight of nothing. No future. That glimpse of happiness You stare at all the clouds today tomorrow. And all I see blank white space.