A Collection of Sunburnt Memories

I met you at a very strange time indeed. It is very clear in my head, despite the time passed. But it is strange nonetheless. I was lost. I am lost. I am in a strange place, in a strange time, surrounded by strange things. I see clearly: it is a park, a café, a theater, a shop. I see the people, the faces, some friendly, some angry, others tired. Everything looks familiar. Everything feels strange.

We said our greetings. We shook hands. I remember you had a particularly firm grip. Your hand was cold. We sat down. It was all quite formal. I ordered a mocha. You had “just a coffee”. Our conversation as I remember it was somewhat like a dream. No definitive beginning, an immersive middle, an abrupt end. We spoke of our interests, some common, some dissimilar. We spoke of our pasts, of our futures, my hopes, and your dreams. When we finished, we shook hands again and said our farewells. That goodbye — it seemed so final. But still you left a smile on my face that I could not shake off for the life of me when we left that table.

It was nighttime. You were dressed nicely, and when I asked you what the occasion was, you simply shrugged and laughed. The room was bright and vividly decorated. The conversation that night was more business oriented, but it was in no way lacking in friendliness and openness. The obligatory portion of the meeting went by quickly, and I was happy in being able to steer the conversation into a more casual direction. You recommended me a book towards the end of that episode, as I was picking up my bag, though I don’t remember what it was.

I was slightly apprehensive when you came inside my house. I had put in some effort in tidying up my place, but it was not a deed worth commending. I offered you something to drink. You chose water. I went to the kitchen, fetching the water you requested as well as my own drink and some assorted snacks. When I entered the living room, you were already seated on the couch. I handed you your water, and the questions started. You were furiously jotting down notes while I sat there, finding the right words, the right phrasing, shuffling through my thoughts and trying to grasp the perfect response. It was hard; you looked so demanding, and your eyes appeared to be saying that my answers were inadequate.

The sun was warm and not too hot, but the was glare killing me, as I had left my sunglasses at home. The sand was warm too, soothing to my typically cold feet. You wanted me to stop hiding under the umbrella and jump into the water. My excuse was that my pale skin sunburned easily. It was a bad excuse.

You brought a friend that time. Again it was at a café, and a lively conversation took place. I took an instant liking to your friend, who was receptive and engaging, and whose taste in music I enthusiastically approved of. We did have some business to take care of, which was why there was paperwork on the table, weighted down by our coffee cups. I was going in for a sip when a swift gust of wind took my papers for a ride. In a moment of haste, you and I scrambled for the fleeting papers, and after recovering the last sheet, I discovered in dismay coffee stains on my shirt. Your friend graciously helped lessen some of the damage while I shook my head in disappointment. I thought I saw you sitting there on the opposite side of the table, covering a smirk, or maybe even a slight giggle.

The movie theater was crowded. I knew that we should have arrived earlier. By the time we got our popcorn and drinks and headed down that dark hallway into the theater, the previews were already rolling and the only open seats were in the very front. I was already bracing myself for extreme dizziness and sickness. You seemed quite anxious too. I know we both thought about changing tickets. It was, of course, too late. It turned out to be, as most of us expected, a second rate film. Enjoyable, but not worth re-watching. The sun forced me to squint when we came out of the theater. You wanted to get ice cream afterwards. I gladly went along.

You were remarkably persistent in that choice. I could not dissuade you into picking the green one. I hated red. Perhaps you have a different taste than me, and that is most likely the case, but I could not keep my opinion to myself. I buried my face in my hands in mock disappointment to mark my disapproval. When I looked again, you were already wearing it. It looked good on you. I’ll give you that much. But not much more. I think that is enough.

I cried out allergies, but you were adamant about the dog. You knew I was a bad liar. What a shame. I guess the fake sneezes weren’t genuine enough. You muscled him (or was it a her) into the living room, where he (or she) sniffled and lay down next to me. I kept the corner of my eye out, watching the dog. The dog just lay there, much to my relief. Much of that meeting went on as usual; we both enjoyed ourselves well enough.

“Tell me more. Tell me more about those…” I said eagerly. You scratched your eyes, smiling, contemplating whether or not to embarrass yourself any further. There was a slight pause. And then your eyes gleamed, and you shot back at me: “Why don’t you tell me about…?” You grinned as you said that, almost like a dare. And I sat there dumb, not knowing how to respond for some very long seconds. And we laughed. And I eventually answered.

The dense trees provided ample shade, so I felt the sunscreen go to waste as we walked along. I should leave you to fill in the details: the leaves crunching beneath our feet, birds chirping in the distance. I must move beyond the clichés.

You often pulled me back by sitting down on some boulder and taking large gulps of water. I would stand there, hands on my hips, waiting for you to get up. When you did get up, we would walk on. The waterfall was beautiful. I had to take a few photos. The other hikers wouldn’t get out of the way, though. It’s alright, I got a few good snaps. You preferred sitting back, away from the edge, enjoying the view. I would look over my shoulder to see you leaning back against that tree, smiling I think, but I was not sure, for your face was in the shade.

My knees are hurting.

I hate those hospital gowns. I distrust them. I shudder when the nurse tells me to strip and to put that thing on. No, there is no logic or rationale behind my disdain for hospital attire, but we all have our illogical tastes, and I certainly have my own. So imagine my embarrassment when you show up in my room, while I’m laying there like some weak invalid (well, I kind of was one). Actually, there is no need to imagine, you were there. You saw it; you saw me: that face, that sickly body, a frail but whole-hearted smile. You stand there, smiling back. You don’t say a word, nor leave a present. You just stand there, and then you leave. Why?

But no matter. I feel better nonetheless.

3:24 AM.

 Back in the office, you were working with nothing but the computer’s glow and a cup of cold coffee. You took a large yawn, covering your mouth even though no one was around, went back typing.

3:24 PM.

 I was talking to you about something, a book I read, family issues, etc. You were leaning against the wall while I was talking; listening, nodding, taking a large yawn, and covering your mouth, then glancing somewhere else.

A bang. Then silence. I was not sure what surprised me more: the bang or the silence afterwards. I was still for some time. I was a deer in headlights.

No.

A deer stares into its death because it knows not to do, and knows not what is approaching, both literally and figuratively: the car and his death, respectively. It neither fights nor takes off in flight; he freezes. Instinctually and under duress, it and all others fall into those three course of action of fight, flight, or freeze.

But I do not freeze. I do not fight, I do not fly nor run. There is no instinct. I am resigned, and I am at peace.

But not really. I have yet to reach the conclusion, you know it, and after the silence there are more sounds to come. Perhaps no more bangs, or crashes. Perhaps a low hum, a whistle, a whisper.

Yes, a whisper. I remember that. So strange.

Yes, you whispered. Into my ears, a soft string of words, and into my ears more breath than sound.

I smile and turn. I ask:

“Is it peace?”

I wait for a response.

You know there are those days when you simply lie in bed, unable to get up for whatever reason. It is as if an existential crisis has hit you in the middle of the night, seizing your desires and motivations. It is most definitely a pain in the ass, dealing with them. I had one on a Sunday. I looked at my watch. It read 9:21. 9:21 A.M., I assumed. I assumed correctly. Of course, it was an easy assumption. Anyhow, I lay there, and — I can’t remember. You must know, that under those circumstances your mind is fried, you can’t think, you don’t know what to think, and for that matter you don’t even know you’re in that state of misery. No clear recollection of the past, no clear vision of the future. All that I had was a collection of sunburnt memories. So I lay there. And I tried. And I did what I always do when my mind is burnt: apply cold water. Ahh. So soothing, so relaxing. And as the fluid made contact, there was a sizzle, and steam rose, up, up, and swirling and dissipating. I was tempted to blow on it, you know, make it fly, make it vanish. It felt good, it gave me something to smile about. I laid there some more, and eventually I got up. Up, up, up.

I had no idea where we were going. Just a lonely road, straight into the horizon, disappearing into the distance. It was a beautiful sight, and we drove for a long time. From some far away place to somewhere farther. I am still going. I have not yet arrived at my destination, wherever that will be.

There is a dream that is full of blurred colors and blurred faces; the faces are obscured except for the mouths, with fat lips that open and close, and there are screams, shrieks, and yelling, but they do not go with the mouths, and I feel compelled to join, but it is so bizarre, yet so real, and I walk a few steps to the right, backpedalling, and I expect to trip over some standing man’s foot, but I don’t, for they back off except for one, which I violently push against, and my heart leaps because it is you.

You once spoke to me about life. There is much emotion in your voice, and a tone that was spotted with fear, and “fear of what?” I asked, to which you reply “life” and I nodded as I understand. The ideas we exchanged were beautifully round and sparkling, to which I still compare often with purple pearls. The disagreements we have were of a greying color, as the red paint and the blue paint will slowly but surely faded to a singular shade of vibrant grey. Melancholy and aging trees that were losing their leaves in autumn; those are green. “What am I to do!?” you exclaimed, and I shrugged and grin and I will hand you a scene: a scene of my childhood, of sunshine and tears, and a coupling of various scents and textures. You asked me, “Why do you give this to me?” and I will say, “I think it only appropriate.” And you grow quiet in response. I want to open my mouth and say something, mainly that I wanted to say something about the sunrise last night, viewed from a fourth story balcony and of an ominously baby blue color.

I do not want you to perceive me as insane. I do not want to convey an image of an unreliable narrator. I am here. I am truthful. I have written nothing but that of which has been on my mind. But — why? I am in an ocean. There is nothing but gentle blue waves all the way until they touch the blue sky. I am bobbing up and down, and it is sickening. I have no paddle, no oar, no compass, no map, no stars. I am in the company of myself. I must get to shore, I say. I must find you, I think. I will share this magnificent story, this chest of treasure. But — how? I say I will write my way out of desolation, I will spill the gold coins from this chest and it will propel me to the ends that I desire. And I desire you. And when I come ashore on a sandy beach on a sunny day, I will have nothing but an empty treasure chest and a wrinkled leather-bound book whose text has been all washed off, and you will see me and those expended treasures and be confused, and I will be happy.

The washed out text. This is what remains. The gold I have spent, resting on the bottom of the ocean and cannot be recovered, but the text — I remember. Perhaps only a small excerpt, a little shimmering in the distance, some vague impressions of letters and characters and events floating around the page. Perhaps that is all that you see.

“What is the meaning of all this? What is the message?” you ask.

I ponder this question, and it is a good question.

“These are just random memories! What is the point?” you exclaim.

I think for a moment. I scratch my head, and I dig through my mind. Maybe there is no point. Maybe this is all meaningless. No. There has to be something, there has to be more. My story — it can’t be for nothing!

Can it?

        

It was at a park. It was cloudy but warm, the air thick and humid. I spotted you at a distance, some fifty feet down the path, walking towards me. You were holding the hand of your son, Jackson, if I recall his name correctly. I was walking leisurely with my son as well: Aidan. At twenty feet away, our eyes met, a tacit acknowledgement, and we converged onto each other. You got so close, and I gripped Aidan’s hand tight as you seemed to walk through me. I turned back to see you walking on, and I squinted at your back; something was off. I couldn’t tell. My son tugged at me. I turned to him.

“Cut it out Jac — Aid, —  Jack, — Ja, — A — .”

I turned around again to see you, still going on that path away from me while I stood there bewildered.

Yes! Yes! I know why now. I see it. I didn’t know. Now I do. I see you. I have found it, the truth, and it is after all not so strange after all. I meet you again now, after imagining, living, and now I understand. I thank you. I understand now. All of it.

Except for one part. You had gone, down that curving path into the trees, walking alone. I saw you disappear into the distance. But as I walk back to my car, keys in hand, someone taps me on my right shoulder, and I turn around to see no one there, and I hear you ask, loudly, and clearly. And I do not know how to answer. I wait for some other voice for a long time, but when I conclude none will come, I get into my car and drive away, looking back. I think of that question as I’m driving, and even while I am drifting in and out of consciousness in the midst of this chaos and anarchy, there is a peacefulness to the echo of those words:

“Where are you going?”

I really don’t know, and I don’t really care so much after all. But it echoes, and despite the comfort of the sound, it is a question, and eventually I have to answer. I think, and I think, and I say very softly, to myself, “To some strange place, perhaps.” So soft, almost only as a thought, so quiet that no one could have possibly heard it.

But maybe you did, hiding somewhere, watching, listening, silently observing, waiting, waiting for some strange time when we can meet again. Sometimes I have a notion you are right around a corner, in the shadows, and that your voice is drifting near my ears. I think you are close, I think we will meet again soon, but I don’t dare look around.

ad infinitum.