It's Hard To Be The Last To Show, Anticipation Is So Hard To See, If You Know, Don't Let It Show, Think It Over And Come Back To Me
--"Final Say", Sambassadeur
We stopped in that park where we had painted the bobbing horse tan just the year before. Then, I had told you to leave it alone as if it was a crime to touch up a few spots where the paint had chipped off. You then went on to inform that it wasn't like we were vandalizing the horse; that, if we were stopped by the police or some other concerned citizen, we were doing our civic duty to restore the old girl to as good as new. Our duty, you said, as if the park was in our backyard. I told you they had people for that kind of task. It wasn't our responsibility. Parks are for playing in--not for worrying, I reminded you. All you did was go back to smoothly applying the coat to the equine-shaped piece of equipment. I took a step away, but no more than a step. Reluctantly I came back to help you. You took out an old red brush from where you had been keeping it hidden in your knapsack, smiling devilishly, knowing full well that I would cave.
Then, it had been a matter of being stubborn why I never said I wanted to help, why I just pitched in.
"Not so well," you replied with the tone of somebody who had much less serious news to impart.
Your words floated out lightly with all the urgency of telling someone that you were cold. Then, as if to complete the image, you wrapped the blue-and-white scarf around your neck once more. You didn't even wait for me to let the news sink in. You didn't stand there expecting me to say something back. What could I say? You merely took your hands in your pockets and started to walk to the old wooden monkey bar and bridge set. After allowing myself some time to process your words, I followed you. I was careful to keep a few steps behind you. I didn't want to walk beside you if you needed some time to compose yourself. But somehow I knew that wasn't it. You never even paused in your actions. You walked to the wooden stairs, grabbed the metal arches they used as rails, and sat down. Your head never hung down. You didn't start to cry. You just sat there, waiting for me to catch up with you.
I walked up to you, but instead of sitting next to you, I just stood in front of you. There wasn't any room anyhow. I couldn't count how many times I've sat beside on those some steps. I just couldn't bring myself to do it this time. Those other times when I sat there, they were in happier times. I sat next to you during those times when we had just walked home from school and didn't feel like jumping straight into dealing with our extended families. I sat next to you during those times when you had beamed about how well you had finished in your last track meet. I sat next to you during those times when you had just gotten back from Vancouver and simply had to tell me all about it. Those weren't just some steps Those were happy steps. This wasn't a happy occasion. I couldn't sit on them because if what you were telling me were true, then those steps would forever be the opposite of happy steps. That's why I stood.
When I looked at you, you weren't exactly smiling. You seemed lost in your own thoughts and I didn't feel very much like getting lost right along with you. I wanted to stay objective. I wanted to stay composed because that's what I thought you needed from me at the time. Your blue sweater blurred into your blue jeans. It was rather difficult making out in the nighttime light where one ended and the other began. Or maybe my senses were failing. In either case, seeing your body blend in upon itself had the effect of making your face stand out--well, your face and that scarf of yours. You looked like a floating head with two long tendrils extending from it. I can't even imagine what I must have looked like. I'm assuming a grey shirt blended just as neatly into the horizon as dark blue did. I remembered thinking, you know what, I'm betting that everything else would have faded no matter what you had been wearing. It's funny how your perception plays tricks on you like that when you're truly focusing upon a singular object or a singular thought. It's like staring at the black area of a flame. I read somewhere that if you stare long enough at that empty space, everything else fades around it until all you can see is the flame. That's what your face was, the flame of a candle that I could have stared at all night.
It wasn't like us not to talk. The silence was a wall between us. I didn't know if you were fielding questions just yet or if the silence was an invitation to change the subject. I didn't know which way I was supposed to go. The funny thing about walls, though, is that if you climb high enough they can also act as bridges. That's exactly what you did after you had had enough of me staring at the nothingness beside and around you. You climbed up those few steps to start crossing the wooden bridge. At the pace you traversed them, you were practically telling me to chase you. Again, it took a few moments, but I gave into my basic instincts and scampered after you. There we were, kids acting like kids. The girl who ran track with her scarf flailing wildly behind her and the boy who emphatically didn't run track doing his best just to keep up with her.
It was a short run. We basically did a circuit of the structure. When we came back to the steps, you sat right back down. Your breathing wasn't in the least bit labored. If I hadn't just chased you I wouldn't have thought you had gotten up from those stairs at all. I had played this game before with you, the one where you pretend like you had been there the entire time. Then, when I tried to scrutinize the look on your face, you would just sit there. "Oh, did you just get here? I've been here for ages," your non-smile seemed to say. Running without running, gloating without gloating, that's the exact thought you want to convey. I shook my head. I didn't want to give you the satisfaction of voicing my annoyance. The fact you had suckered me into running at all was enough to let you know I was annoyed. There wouldn't be any point in actually saying the thought aloud. Complaining without complaining, that was me that night.
A few days later you asked me if ever had any intention of talking to you that night about what you had told me. I told you that I wasn't sure. I was waiting for you to say something more about it first, I explained. You said you had thought the same thing regarding me. It wasn't my place to talk about it if you didn't want to talk about it, I continued. Well, it wasn't my place to force you to talk about it if you were uncomfortable. I suppose one of those times you sat down I should have taken the opportunity to comment, or to console, whatever you needed. Sometimes, though, I need that visual clue that allows me to take a step in the right direction. You seriously couldn't have expected me to take a stand on something without seeing where you stood first. That wasn't my m.o. I was the only guy you could count on to back you up. But how could I back you up if I didn't know which direction you wanted to go in the first place? That was a little unfair of you. You know me. You need to tell me where to go before I'll go. You need to tell me what to say before I could say it. You needed to tell me how I was supposed to feel about all of that before I could feel it. It would never seem real to me, no matter what you said, until I could see for myself how real it was to you. The way you carried yourself--even the way you sat--it didn't seem at all real to you. You had said the words, but the words hadn't taken effect yet. For all I knew, that was just some more of your game-playing. You had been reciting a story to me. That's all you had been doing up until we got to the park. I wouldn't take you at your word until you started acting it out.
I couldn't.
You couldn't be what you say you were because you didn't look it. That would be like you telling me you were a bat and you still looking like yourself. You couldn't be those words because those words didn't look right on you. The truth was something you could see, you could touch, you could paint, you could run after. It wasn't something that just lingered in the wind, making you sad and torn up all inside. It wasn't something that just left pain behind it without a means to fight it. The truth wasn't some jargon you repeated to me because you wanted me to know. The truth was your face, and your face still moved and changed as if it were something very much full of life.
When you saw I wasn't going to sit next to you yet again, you stood up. You took the long end of your scarf and tossed it to me like Indiana Jones tossing the end of his whip. I grabbed on. You were going to pull me to safety, I thought, or at least lead me to that area of the park where we could finally talk about what it was you wanted to come there to talk about. You took a step towards the horse, then another. I let the scarf become taut before I reluctantly was dragged in behind you. It didn't take you long to reach your target. You came up beside the tan horse as if you were mounting a real horse. You brushed the mane playfully. You stroked beneath the chin, effectively trying to calm it down. Finally, I watched you get on the horse slowly. As you started to bounce slightly on the horse, I came up behind you so as to wrap the dragging end of your scarf around you again.
when it's over, when it's done
we'll be together, we'll be as one
I sat down on the steps just to watch you gallop away on the horse. The happy steps could at last be put to good use by me because that was a sight I'd be happy to hold onto. The way your lips drew up into the biggest grin I'd seen all day from you, the way your scarf kept threatening to become entangled in the springs of the bobbing horse, the way you hunched your back over to pretend you were speeding away from some invisible pursuers--they all coalesced into the image of the girl I still knew. There would be plenty of time to get to know the person you were going to become, once the truth hit. That night was still a night to memorialize the girl you used to be and the one you'd always remain to me at least.
Maybe that had been your plan all along. Maybe that was your next "painting the horse" scam. You knew I wouldn't want to talk about it and that's why you had opted to tell me last. You knew your whole family would want to do nothing but talk about it so you anticipated keeping my blissfully unaware for as long as possible. Then, when you finally did work out the right time to tell me, you told me in a way as to elicit no response. You posted the news as a bulletin written on water, impossible to write back upon. You wanted me to be the last to know because you wanted me to be the last to show how much it was going to affect me.
I think that's why you insisted telling me in the park. I think that's why you insisted on telling me late at night. There would be no time to really discuss it over and there would be ample space to let the dampened mood to float away. I can only imagine if you had chosen to tell me in your room or if you had chosen to tell me in the afternoon. We probably would have delved and dived as deeply as possible into every facet of what was going to happen to you. I probably would have struck a nerve or pushed you too far. You were smart in choosing the right battlefield as you did. You handled yourself capably and showed why it was I always tagged in along behind you and not the other way around.
That's how the evening ended. You rode the horse. I watched from the steps for another hour. Neither one of us mentioned to the other anything about the big reveal. I just watched you smiling, playing the way you had millions of other times we had come to this park. Tomorrow was a time we had decided to leave for another day. As far as we were concerned we weren't anticipating anything, we weren't expecting anything. We refused to let ourselves become worried about something that was still only words spoken aloud, first to her, then to me. Words couldn't hurt you. And if they couldn't hurt you, then they sure as hell couldn't hurt me.
After all, parks were for playing in. Not for worrying. Besides, I was hoping if you could ride that horse fast enough, you might just get away somehow.
Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers
We stopped in that park where we had painted the bobbing horse tan just the year before. Then, I had told you to leave it alone as if it was a crime to touch up a few spots where the paint had chipped off. You then went on to inform that it wasn't like we were vandalizing the horse; that, if we were stopped by the police or some other concerned citizen, we were doing our civic duty to restore the old girl to as good as new. Our duty, you said, as if the park was in our backyard. I told you they had people for that kind of task. It wasn't our responsibility. Parks are for playing in--not for worrying, I reminded you. All you did was go back to smoothly applying the coat to the equine-shaped piece of equipment. I took a step away, but no more than a step. Reluctantly I came back to help you. You took out an old red brush from where you had been keeping it hidden in your knapsack, smiling devilishly, knowing full well that I would cave.Then, it had been a matter of being stubborn why I never said I wanted to help, why I just pitched in.
"Not so well," you replied with the tone of somebody who had much less serious news to impart.
Your words floated out lightly with all the urgency of telling someone that you were cold. Then, as if to complete the image, you wrapped the blue-and-white scarf around your neck once more. You didn't even wait for me to let the news sink in. You didn't stand there expecting me to say something back. What could I say? You merely took your hands in your pockets and started to walk to the old wooden monkey bar and bridge set. After allowing myself some time to process your words, I followed you. I was careful to keep a few steps behind you. I didn't want to walk beside you if you needed some time to compose yourself. But somehow I knew that wasn't it. You never even paused in your actions. You walked to the wooden stairs, grabbed the metal arches they used as rails, and sat down. Your head never hung down. You didn't start to cry. You just sat there, waiting for me to catch up with you.
I walked up to you, but instead of sitting next to you, I just stood in front of you. There wasn't any room anyhow. I couldn't count how many times I've sat beside on those some steps. I just couldn't bring myself to do it this time. Those other times when I sat there, they were in happier times. I sat next to you during those times when we had just walked home from school and didn't feel like jumping straight into dealing with our extended families. I sat next to you during those times when you had beamed about how well you had finished in your last track meet. I sat next to you during those times when you had just gotten back from Vancouver and simply had to tell me all about it. Those weren't just some steps Those were happy steps. This wasn't a happy occasion. I couldn't sit on them because if what you were telling me were true, then those steps would forever be the opposite of happy steps. That's why I stood.
When I looked at you, you weren't exactly smiling. You seemed lost in your own thoughts and I didn't feel very much like getting lost right along with you. I wanted to stay objective. I wanted to stay composed because that's what I thought you needed from me at the time. Your blue sweater blurred into your blue jeans. It was rather difficult making out in the nighttime light where one ended and the other began. Or maybe my senses were failing. In either case, seeing your body blend in upon itself had the effect of making your face stand out--well, your face and that scarf of yours. You looked like a floating head with two long tendrils extending from it. I can't even imagine what I must have looked like. I'm assuming a grey shirt blended just as neatly into the horizon as dark blue did. I remembered thinking, you know what, I'm betting that everything else would have faded no matter what you had been wearing. It's funny how your perception plays tricks on you like that when you're truly focusing upon a singular object or a singular thought. It's like staring at the black area of a flame. I read somewhere that if you stare long enough at that empty space, everything else fades around it until all you can see is the flame. That's what your face was, the flame of a candle that I could have stared at all night.
It wasn't like us not to talk. The silence was a wall between us. I didn't know if you were fielding questions just yet or if the silence was an invitation to change the subject. I didn't know which way I was supposed to go. The funny thing about walls, though, is that if you climb high enough they can also act as bridges. That's exactly what you did after you had had enough of me staring at the nothingness beside and around you. You climbed up those few steps to start crossing the wooden bridge. At the pace you traversed them, you were practically telling me to chase you. Again, it took a few moments, but I gave into my basic instincts and scampered after you. There we were, kids acting like kids. The girl who ran track with her scarf flailing wildly behind her and the boy who emphatically didn't run track doing his best just to keep up with her.
It was a short run. We basically did a circuit of the structure. When we came back to the steps, you sat right back down. Your breathing wasn't in the least bit labored. If I hadn't just chased you I wouldn't have thought you had gotten up from those stairs at all. I had played this game before with you, the one where you pretend like you had been there the entire time. Then, when I tried to scrutinize the look on your face, you would just sit there. "Oh, did you just get here? I've been here for ages," your non-smile seemed to say. Running without running, gloating without gloating, that's the exact thought you want to convey. I shook my head. I didn't want to give you the satisfaction of voicing my annoyance. The fact you had suckered me into running at all was enough to let you know I was annoyed. There wouldn't be any point in actually saying the thought aloud. Complaining without complaining, that was me that night.
A few days later you asked me if ever had any intention of talking to you that night about what you had told me. I told you that I wasn't sure. I was waiting for you to say something more about it first, I explained. You said you had thought the same thing regarding me. It wasn't my place to talk about it if you didn't want to talk about it, I continued. Well, it wasn't my place to force you to talk about it if you were uncomfortable. I suppose one of those times you sat down I should have taken the opportunity to comment, or to console, whatever you needed. Sometimes, though, I need that visual clue that allows me to take a step in the right direction. You seriously couldn't have expected me to take a stand on something without seeing where you stood first. That wasn't my m.o. I was the only guy you could count on to back you up. But how could I back you up if I didn't know which direction you wanted to go in the first place? That was a little unfair of you. You know me. You need to tell me where to go before I'll go. You need to tell me what to say before I could say it. You needed to tell me how I was supposed to feel about all of that before I could feel it. It would never seem real to me, no matter what you said, until I could see for myself how real it was to you. The way you carried yourself--even the way you sat--it didn't seem at all real to you. You had said the words, but the words hadn't taken effect yet. For all I knew, that was just some more of your game-playing. You had been reciting a story to me. That's all you had been doing up until we got to the park. I wouldn't take you at your word until you started acting it out.
I couldn't.
You couldn't be what you say you were because you didn't look it. That would be like you telling me you were a bat and you still looking like yourself. You couldn't be those words because those words didn't look right on you. The truth was something you could see, you could touch, you could paint, you could run after. It wasn't something that just lingered in the wind, making you sad and torn up all inside. It wasn't something that just left pain behind it without a means to fight it. The truth wasn't some jargon you repeated to me because you wanted me to know. The truth was your face, and your face still moved and changed as if it were something very much full of life.
When you saw I wasn't going to sit next to you yet again, you stood up. You took the long end of your scarf and tossed it to me like Indiana Jones tossing the end of his whip. I grabbed on. You were going to pull me to safety, I thought, or at least lead me to that area of the park where we could finally talk about what it was you wanted to come there to talk about. You took a step towards the horse, then another. I let the scarf become taut before I reluctantly was dragged in behind you. It didn't take you long to reach your target. You came up beside the tan horse as if you were mounting a real horse. You brushed the mane playfully. You stroked beneath the chin, effectively trying to calm it down. Finally, I watched you get on the horse slowly. As you started to bounce slightly on the horse, I came up behind you so as to wrap the dragging end of your scarf around you again.
when it's over, when it's done
we'll be together, we'll be as one
I sat down on the steps just to watch you gallop away on the horse. The happy steps could at last be put to good use by me because that was a sight I'd be happy to hold onto. The way your lips drew up into the biggest grin I'd seen all day from you, the way your scarf kept threatening to become entangled in the springs of the bobbing horse, the way you hunched your back over to pretend you were speeding away from some invisible pursuers--they all coalesced into the image of the girl I still knew. There would be plenty of time to get to know the person you were going to become, once the truth hit. That night was still a night to memorialize the girl you used to be and the one you'd always remain to me at least.
Maybe that had been your plan all along. Maybe that was your next "painting the horse" scam. You knew I wouldn't want to talk about it and that's why you had opted to tell me last. You knew your whole family would want to do nothing but talk about it so you anticipated keeping my blissfully unaware for as long as possible. Then, when you finally did work out the right time to tell me, you told me in a way as to elicit no response. You posted the news as a bulletin written on water, impossible to write back upon. You wanted me to be the last to know because you wanted me to be the last to show how much it was going to affect me.
I think that's why you insisted telling me in the park. I think that's why you insisted on telling me late at night. There would be no time to really discuss it over and there would be ample space to let the dampened mood to float away. I can only imagine if you had chosen to tell me in your room or if you had chosen to tell me in the afternoon. We probably would have delved and dived as deeply as possible into every facet of what was going to happen to you. I probably would have struck a nerve or pushed you too far. You were smart in choosing the right battlefield as you did. You handled yourself capably and showed why it was I always tagged in along behind you and not the other way around.
That's how the evening ended. You rode the horse. I watched from the steps for another hour. Neither one of us mentioned to the other anything about the big reveal. I just watched you smiling, playing the way you had millions of other times we had come to this park. Tomorrow was a time we had decided to leave for another day. As far as we were concerned we weren't anticipating anything, we weren't expecting anything. We refused to let ourselves become worried about something that was still only words spoken aloud, first to her, then to me. Words couldn't hurt you. And if they couldn't hurt you, then they sure as hell couldn't hurt me.
After all, parks were for playing in. Not for worrying. Besides, I was hoping if you could ride that horse fast enough, you might just get away somehow.
Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers
Labels: Change, life vs. fiction, park, Remembrance, sambassadeu
posted by mojo shivers @ 1:47 AM
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