She looked up, her gaze fixing on me. Her eyes had a guarded look to them, which soon, however, assumed an intensity that she, perhaps, could not feign. It felt to me like she was boring a hole through the canvas, piercing past the oils with her stare, asking, is it true? Are you there?
A shout was frozen somewhere in my throat and I struggled inwardly, straining against the confines of my prison, feeling more trapped now, more than ever, now that I had begun to, once again, wrestle with I knew not what. It was like this, too, the first time I regained consciousness and found myself where I was. Only now, I struggled more fiercely—against these unknown walls, against immobility, against despair—because I knew that someone had somehow found out where I was.
Did prayers still get heard in this day and age?
She rose from the chair and walked toward me, her steps wide, determined. She stopped just near enough so that I could hear her soft, deep breathing.
She laid a hand on my arm, running her eyes all over me. I knew that her hand was on my arm because I saw it there. This lack of feeling pained me the most. So, I braced myself, giving it one final, solid push, as if physical effort would free me from the incomprehensible state I was in. It was almost painful, the strain; so that when I felt I had reached the end of my strength, I eased back, slowly, exhaling the tightness.
She was so near. I could see just exactly how beautiful her eyes were as they looked searchingly at me, how they were like whirlpools I wanted to go to pieces in, how her gaze was like a spell that held me, as if her eyes were arms wrapped tightly around me, yes, and I, wretched being, longed to bury myself in her aliveness, to feel her, palpable, in my hands, to be palpable in her hands.
I felt myself weakening, the longer the seconds ticked away; felt, more painfully now, the helplessness that I had long ago learned to come to terms with.
Oh, God, that she had come so near, so near.
So near.
I felt that I could no longer bear it, and I prepared to give up.
The jolt was indescribable, then, when I began to feel, very faintly, the feather-lightness of her touch as she trailed her thumb along my hand.
Showing posts with label excerpts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label excerpts. Show all posts
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
from "The Flower Girls That We Were"
And the snapshots, of course.
The times that I looked at the ten or so pictures which my mom put in an album, my mind registered a blank, and I drew up more questions than answers: Why was I frowning all the time? Were the flowers in my basket real or not? How did I feel, sitting there on the pew with the other white-clad flower girls? Why did I look so anxious, while they seemed so much at ease?
Looking at the photos felt a little strange, as I did not have any actual memory of them ever happening. I did not recall how it was to be wearing the white, boat-necked, ankle-length dress, bare except for a wide orange sash tied around its waist; or how the headpiece made of orange flowers felt on my head.
It was my aunt's wedding, but I did not remember being aware of that, or of anything at all. The orange and white-colored flowers arranged along the pews did not look familiar. I did not remember seeing my Auntie Nene so young, so vibrant in her white gown; looking dazed with happiness, sitting there across the altar with her equally young groom, an ineffable smile spilling from her lips. Neither did I recall my uncle to be half as handsome as he was in his medal-festooned, white military suit. Did they, on the other hand, remember the whole thing—from beginning to end—it being their wedding and all?
I didn’t know.
Running my eyes over the photos, I remembered the things my parents had told me about each frame; and, in time, I began to gather a sense of familiarity, somehow, of the captured portraits. Still, it was different from having an actual memory to anchor the familiarity on. Somewhere between the pictures and my eyes, there always seemed to be a hollow that would have only been filled by memory itself. I looked at each snapshot with a perceptible lack of emotional response, except for something akin to regret—regret that I would never be able to say the words, “I remember.”
-March, 2004, CW 141/ Creative Nonfiction 2-
The times that I looked at the ten or so pictures which my mom put in an album, my mind registered a blank, and I drew up more questions than answers: Why was I frowning all the time? Were the flowers in my basket real or not? How did I feel, sitting there on the pew with the other white-clad flower girls? Why did I look so anxious, while they seemed so much at ease?
Looking at the photos felt a little strange, as I did not have any actual memory of them ever happening. I did not recall how it was to be wearing the white, boat-necked, ankle-length dress, bare except for a wide orange sash tied around its waist; or how the headpiece made of orange flowers felt on my head.
It was my aunt's wedding, but I did not remember being aware of that, or of anything at all. The orange and white-colored flowers arranged along the pews did not look familiar. I did not remember seeing my Auntie Nene so young, so vibrant in her white gown; looking dazed with happiness, sitting there across the altar with her equally young groom, an ineffable smile spilling from her lips. Neither did I recall my uncle to be half as handsome as he was in his medal-festooned, white military suit. Did they, on the other hand, remember the whole thing—from beginning to end—it being their wedding and all?
I didn’t know.
Running my eyes over the photos, I remembered the things my parents had told me about each frame; and, in time, I began to gather a sense of familiarity, somehow, of the captured portraits. Still, it was different from having an actual memory to anchor the familiarity on. Somewhere between the pictures and my eyes, there always seemed to be a hollow that would have only been filled by memory itself. I looked at each snapshot with a perceptible lack of emotional response, except for something akin to regret—regret that I would never be able to say the words, “I remember.”
-March, 2004, CW 141/ Creative Nonfiction 2-
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