Recessed no longer.
Six years and a few weeks ago, my life took an abrupt change in direction; it wasn't one of those gentle "right lane ends" signs that not so much tells you to move over as urge you, it was more of a head-on collision with twisting metal, smoking engines and leaking gas. And like all gruesome collisions worth their salt, I've suffered from a slight case of amnesia; some things dance across my mind with such vivid detail that it could have happened this morning.
Other details take a bit more coaxing to reveal themselves. And when they do, it's not unlike those creepy flashers that haunted my school in sixth grade: you know there's something weird going on with the dude, but until that beige overcoat flaps open, you don't know exactly what.
Such is the case with my memory lately. Events that I think are completely random and probably unreal in their existence suddenly begin to fall into their places; missing puzzle pieces to the ongoing mystery of Andy.
One such puzzle piece fell into place recently.
My mom has always been terrified to display her important china and linens; the china is usually stored safely away under our sink in a cocoon of newspaper, and the linen precisely folded in a cupboard over our hamper, waiting for the holiday season to make its yearly appearances.
Which explains why our undersized table is covered with a dingy tablecloth, stained napkins and various breakfast wares. I'm sitting with my back to the window, the fall sun struggling with the ever-present Pacific Northwest clouds to provide something, anything uplifiting to the day. It's looking to be a losing battle.
A pearly-white bowl, crafted by machines from across the world, sits before me, filled with Cracklin' Oat Bran and non-fat milk. Mom is busy in the kitchen, every movement she makes is accompanied by a sound: a couple shuffles left, water pours; a floor tile squeaks and the refrigerator door opens.
My sister sits to my right, her head low over her cereal, eyes engaged on the cereal box she holds just past the bowl, unaware that her life, her existence, is about to take a grinding, uncomfortable detour. A warm anxiety has consumed me, my insides wring and twist with every passing moment, detesting its knowledge of what I need to tell her.
"Hey Anna, you remember that I went to the doctor last month?"
"Yes," she replied nonchalantly, keeping her eyes locked onto the cereal box.
"Well, it was an MRI--kind of like an XRAY but better," my voice quaked a little, despite my efforts to keep it steady. She heart it too, because she shifter her eyes to me. "Well, they were scanning my head, trying to figure out why I can't hear out of my left ear...and they found something, a tumor, on my brain stem." I reached out, my right hand clasping her forearm. "But don't worry, I'll be okay." My voice broke, a flood of emotion clamped down on my insides, forcing my teeth to gnash and jaws to strain. My chin dropped to my chest, every particle of energy devoted to remaining strong, urging the fear out my heart for the time being.
A deep breath, a long slow inhale of air rushes through my nose. My eyes close, my resolve steels. My head raises on its own, and my eyelids follow suit. They find my sister, her face covered in her hands, shoulders heaving with emotion. They find my mother, a few feet away, her expression a frightening mask of emotion; sadness and anger and unknowing gripping her conscience.
I’m on my knees; her head is on my shoulder, her arms wrapped around my neck, her tears and mucous darken my t-shirt.
Other details take a bit more coaxing to reveal themselves. And when they do, it's not unlike those creepy flashers that haunted my school in sixth grade: you know there's something weird going on with the dude, but until that beige overcoat flaps open, you don't know exactly what.
Such is the case with my memory lately. Events that I think are completely random and probably unreal in their existence suddenly begin to fall into their places; missing puzzle pieces to the ongoing mystery of Andy.
One such puzzle piece fell into place recently.
My mom has always been terrified to display her important china and linens; the china is usually stored safely away under our sink in a cocoon of newspaper, and the linen precisely folded in a cupboard over our hamper, waiting for the holiday season to make its yearly appearances.
Which explains why our undersized table is covered with a dingy tablecloth, stained napkins and various breakfast wares. I'm sitting with my back to the window, the fall sun struggling with the ever-present Pacific Northwest clouds to provide something, anything uplifiting to the day. It's looking to be a losing battle.
A pearly-white bowl, crafted by machines from across the world, sits before me, filled with Cracklin' Oat Bran and non-fat milk. Mom is busy in the kitchen, every movement she makes is accompanied by a sound: a couple shuffles left, water pours; a floor tile squeaks and the refrigerator door opens.
My sister sits to my right, her head low over her cereal, eyes engaged on the cereal box she holds just past the bowl, unaware that her life, her existence, is about to take a grinding, uncomfortable detour. A warm anxiety has consumed me, my insides wring and twist with every passing moment, detesting its knowledge of what I need to tell her.
"Hey Anna, you remember that I went to the doctor last month?"
"Yes," she replied nonchalantly, keeping her eyes locked onto the cereal box.
"Well, it was an MRI--kind of like an XRAY but better," my voice quaked a little, despite my efforts to keep it steady. She heart it too, because she shifter her eyes to me. "Well, they were scanning my head, trying to figure out why I can't hear out of my left ear...and they found something, a tumor, on my brain stem." I reached out, my right hand clasping her forearm. "But don't worry, I'll be okay." My voice broke, a flood of emotion clamped down on my insides, forcing my teeth to gnash and jaws to strain. My chin dropped to my chest, every particle of energy devoted to remaining strong, urging the fear out my heart for the time being.
A deep breath, a long slow inhale of air rushes through my nose. My eyes close, my resolve steels. My head raises on its own, and my eyelids follow suit. They find my sister, her face covered in her hands, shoulders heaving with emotion. They find my mother, a few feet away, her expression a frightening mask of emotion; sadness and anger and unknowing gripping her conscience.
I’m on my knees; her head is on my shoulder, her arms wrapped around my neck, her tears and mucous darken my t-shirt.
posted by The Haiku Review at 8:17 AM
3 Comments:
My new comment thing.
Haloscan sucks; that thing hardly ever works. Hopefully this thingy gets it done.
This is a poetic and evocative post, Andy. It's too bad you have have to spend so much time and energy writing high tech silliness. Sigh.
I have a theory about that, actually. It's because I didn't spell check the post or proofread my post and there were a couple poorly chosen words and typos.
That's why I can not advance. :) Sigh.
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