Kalkidan Untitled

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Kalkidan

There is a debilitating dread that comes with these days. When the sun comes out of exile and the days seem to stretch into forever. When the anniversaries start to roll in and you have to stop every few seconds to catch your breath. It still feels so raw. Although the folks around you have forgotten, you still carry it with you. And it’s beating down on you, like the hot, hot sun, as you try so hard to pretend as if you’ve forgotten too. One especially hot Sunday afternoon, you find yourself sitting in the corner of a small restaurant. The owners were kind enough to provide free water for anyone passing by, and you couldn’t help but go inside. It seems the rest of the town had the same idea. Waitresses are zipping around, some with menus, some without, some with trays and trays of food and some with just a cup of water. They’re all avoiding your corner. You prefer it this way. Finishing your water will mean a waitress will come up to your table with a too sugary accent and ask, “Are you plannin’ on ordering anything?”, and when you shake your head no, she’ll give you a pity smile and run off to the kitchen to whisper about you. You know that. You finish your water anyways. There’s nothing to do in this heat except to remember, and the noise in this restaurant is better than the noise in your head. So it doesn’t matter that the waitress who approaches you has a smile that pinches you. It doesn’t matter that the air conditioning here is so much worse than the air conditioning at home. It doesn’t matter that the day isn’t even halfway over. You can sit still for a moment here. And when that moment passes, you start your re-

booting process. You call it that because, little by little, you get ready to rejoin the world. First you have to remember that you’re a human. It’s easy to forget, especially when you spend so much time distracting yourself. Then you have to make sure your head is attached to your neck, which is attached to your torso, which are attached to your limbs, and so on. The last thing you do, and the hardest, is turning your brain back on. Although it hurts to remember everything, you know you shouldn’t neglect your mind more than you already do.

You don’t know what scares you the most. Being able to remember everything at once, or forgetting it all. You rise from behind the booth and leave a few dollars under your cup. Before you leave, you decide to run into the bathroom. It’s too bright and the air is sticky, but you hold your breath and go anyway. As you’re washing your hands, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Your eyes are tired, with deep bags carved under them. Your skin is tanning, but there’s still an unhealthy dull that falls over it. Your smile lines (since when did you have those?) are the most noticeable feature. They look out of place. You smile at yourself just to see what they look like. It looks and feels wrong. You drop the smile, shut off the faucet, and turn away from the mirror. Something on the wall catches your eye. You grab a paper towel and look for it. It seemed to be a bunch of writing… but where did it go…? There! On the corner of the stall door with the out of order sign. We Miss You There’s only one explanation. You know that. But you’re praying that it’s anything else. You push the stall door open and your world explodes into a fire of emotion. It’s all bathroom graffiti, complete with drawings and expletives and lyrics, dedicated to ‘the people who we’ve lost’. A shrine, almost, in the only way the people understood. You see so many familiar faces and names. You see a cousin’s friend, a babysitter’s ex, and then, without

warning, you burst into tears. Why does it have to hurt this bad? Am I the only one who still cares? Overwhelmed, you back out of the stall and try to take deep breaths. It’s been years and it still hurts every time you remember. You close your eyes and clasp your hands together, almost like a prayer, but you have no idea what you’re praying for or who you’re praying to. You rest your chin on your hands and collect yourself. Your eyes wander up to the shrine again. How beautiful life can be. Little glimmers of hope stick out among all the grime and dirt of the world. And you know you will hold onto this glimmer. Just like how you know you’re not the only one who remembers. And you know you’re not the only one who still cares. You take a few steps forward and place your hand up on the wall. You spend a few minutes just standing there, inhaling the past and exhaling the hurt. All that time, spent running away and ignoring what you thought might kill you, when all you needed was proof that somebody out there was surviving, the same way you are.

You hold your head high when you leave the bathroom. It doesn’t matter that you were in there for entirely too long, or that the waitresses are staring, or that the people in the restaurant exchange glances as you walk by. Nothing matters. You have your glimmer of hope and the rawness of your sorrow begins to soothe itself. Sundays are rest days. You decide it would be nice to

rest.

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[patricia c.]