Lauren Irish ’23, Clouds

Clouds

You said you were going to open the door, and that was not part of the plan. Or at least it was not a part of the puerile idea of a plan I had mentally developed on my way over. I almost felt like informing you of such, but I persuaded my enervated mind that it would be nice to see you one last time. How foolish to think that the emotion I would leave with would be a happy one. It should have been obvious, the oozing desolation departure brings. Blank ivory clouds veneered the sky providing a predictable surface to stare at for the entirety of the car ride. I was lost in my own whimsical fancies, fidgeting with the coarse corner of the plastic bag that encased two exotic candies; a gift because you said you liked coconut and mango. Both were brightly colored, severely contrasting with the situation. Your name was gently written in blue Sharpie with two dashes on either side. Perhaps the font was large for flair, or perhaps it was large to cover up the top half of the nearly empty sandwich bag out of shame. I had tried to mentally pirouette around my shame of bringing only two sweets to honor your egress with. The car slowed, and I left my meaningless reveries behind, reality scornfully greeted with a gust of humid August air. I could smell wet tension in the air, the promise of rain was already visible in the sky, but there was another promise too, one unspoken but deeply coerced. I told myself I would not shed a tear because crying in the rain is a cliche. I rang the doorbell. You opened the door halfway and squeezed past in such a humorous and childlike way that I smiled and tried to bring some of that humor into my voice. You were so warmly and nostalgically recognizable as we had known of each others’ existence for years but had spoken only recently. A regret that I wished to be mutual. Thus, in a way, you were still a stranger. I did not know what to say. “Here,” I handed the plastic bag to you, averting eye contact and instead noticing the color of your shirt. It must have been some shade similar to our elementary school uniforms because the wave of nostalgia that ebbed and flowed so quietly in the background suddenly became overpowering. Regret swam forward as well and began to circle my thoughts as a shark does before the kill. It was only waiting for me to be alone so it could paddle to the surface and make itself truly known. But for now, I saw the fin.

You gave me what I will perceive to be a melancholic smile, “Thanks.” I had a million things to say, but everything snagged on my tongue. I couldn’t say anything. “Hug,” I managed to mutter, and opened my arms that were stiff at my sides before. I refused to move so you came and we embraced. I pulled away first and focused intently on the brick wall that reminded me of an old school building behind you. The overly familiar scent of coriander and patchouli wafted gracefully out of your house reminding me of the days where we watched our sisters play. “Good luck in college, man,” I said, keeping my voice as neutral and fragile as I could make it, for I was scared to say anything that would sting or linger in either of our minds. Odd as I had almost never cared for what I said to you before. You turned to leave, and I felt the apoplectic beating of my heart rise. I wanted to thank you for your cherished friendship, but I could not speak another word. Instead, I glanced up at you one last time, and it was a mistake. Our eyes met, and it was a long pause with forced smiles and shared sorrow. I left, and you closed the door. Regret emerged and I began to reflect. The car ride home was quiet. I waited for the rain to stop, and then I cried.

—Lauren Irish ’23