Echo, Aster Gamarnik ’23

Aster Gamarnik ’23

Echo

Rain gently patters on the hood of my coat, clumsily tumbling down to land on my nose. The seams of my tattered boots surrender to the surrounding mud, as my exposed socks dampen. Yet my feet remain firmly planted in the ground. Those insufferably stubborn things have probably grown roots by now. A whisper of fog escapes my lips and dances away into the glum, darkening sky.

An hour: that’s how long it’s been. That’s how long my eyes have been resting firmly upon that old well. Perhaps we are having a staring contest? A true bonding moment. After brewing in the steaming hot mess of a head for a while, my thoughts finally settle, formulating a simple composition. I let those words cascade from my mouth, unsure of their intentions, not conscious enough to care.

“You know? We’re a lot alike, you and I.”

I wait foolishly for a response, but the only consolation I receive is the sound of little droplets who finally decided it was time to let go. What if those droplets were leaving behind their little droplet friends to venture on into the abyss? Is it heroic? Is it self-destructive? Or is it all the same thing? But who cares anyway? It’s just a stupid droplet. After realizing the pathetic tangent my feeble brain decided to travel down, I fixate back upon the well.

“It’s funny, isn’t it? They use us. They use us but never appreciate us. Those people wouldn’t even dream of giving us a second thought, of considering us. That is, unless we are no longer able to serve them. Beyond getting their personal needs, they couldn’t care less. It’s funny, isn’t it?”

Only a melancholy murmur of droplets answers my desperate call. Is silence my only solace?

“And then they never think about how much we can take. I mean . . .” A raw dread clasps my throat. “Your poor walls can only hold so much water, just as my head can only hold so many of others’ burdens. It’s . . . It’s only when we break down or flood that they notice. Only then. But what about until then?” My eyes trace up the cracks in the stones to rest upon the old well again.

I stop, knowing there is not much more to say, even though my head still bubbles with a billion thoughts: the shrieking voices of anxiety and lonely echoes of past mistakes. A clumsy drop spatters onto my grazed knee and a sting surges up my leg. I search in vain for any last thoughts to set free. Anything! Anything?

Finally I say, with a soft grin growing from the corners of my mouth:

“I’ll take care of you.”

I have always believed that people deserve to be treated the way they treat others; that is why I am an echo. I return whatever people send my way. If they treat me with violence, I spit in their faces with equal hatred; but if they treat me with care, I repay that kindness a hundred times over. Most importantly, if someone does not know who they are, I reflect their voices back to them. I paint their portraits with their own words.

But this young boy knows something about me that I never had a chance to show the world: how I feel. Empathy is a reflection of sentiments, fueled by personal experiences. Never in all my years would I have imagined this boy to empathize with me. I am an echo; empathy is my entire existence, yet he echoed me first.

Unknowingly, he planted a seed in both our minds, and I must aid its growth. So I reply:

“I’ll take care of you.”

Finally, I watch a young boy in a raincoat, with tattered boots and strawberry-stained knees, break free from his stoic stance and meander away. The seed has been planted; a beautiful mind will bloom.