Notes on the Upfall

Thais Jacomassi

A place in the deep countryside where the fisherman’s song plays and the leaves are forever floating in the sky

I. The air tastes of languages unknown. The unfamiliarity of every culture and the traditions they uphold leave me second-guessing each step. The weeds relentlessly grow between the cobblestone streets reminding me of the deep-rooted history of the places I visit. Both the sweet and the bitter. I never knew wet concrete could smell of pine cones and salt, depending on how far you are from the Atlantic. II. Mosaic tiles line the walls in blue and white. Colors rattle and blend into one another as trains approach and leave as quickly as they came. The air is thick and difficult to swallow, so our lungs grow heavy and a white veil is thrown over our heads. We are propelled into black holes with a force that leaves us breathless, but our eyes skid across words on a page because they are the only offer to life we will accept. Beware of the sliding doors.

III. The streetlights illuminate the town in an orange glow. By two in the morning, the townspeople have already retired to their homes to forget the day’s troubles. We discuss our own. He talks about his family as if they were not his own. The weight of a culture ripped from him takes its toll and the Spanish syllables don’t taste familiar anymore. I tell him I know the feeling. We talk of our undetermined futures. He speaks with such confidence and certainty that I feel my doubts being put to shame. By three in the morning, there is hope lingering in the air. “Let’s go for a walk.” IV. The shipyard grows quiet as the fog thickens. It looms over and around our bodies. Someone makes mention of a snow globe. The fog is so dense that the river is no longer visible, but we can hear footsteps on the water. The universe here, within the dome, is yet to be defined; whichever idea we hold will have its own sense of home attached to it. V. On the bus ride back, I lean against the window and stare at a spot on the horizon. Eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed, and eyes flitting over the trees, I try to pierce through the space between the branches. Enough so that I might crawl through, capture the beams of light as the sun rises, and push them back. An attempt at slowing down the passage of time—perhaps stopping it indefinitely. But the birds fly overhead, the alarm clocks go off, and the bus makes its final stop. I remember the air smelled like salt.