Photo by Travis Saylor
There’s a picture I took of you, somewhere, looking up awkwardly from one of the van's back seats. That’s how I know there was confidence, for you to not shy away from me. We are the last generation that grew up without an omnipresence of cameras, but not also without a camera's presence in most moments.
BY PABLO PALACIOS
There’s a picture I took of you, somewhere, looking up awkwardly from one of the van's back seats. That’s how I know there was confidence, for you to not shy away from me. We are the last generation that grew up without an omnipresence of cameras, but not also without a camera's presence in most moments. Even still, I manage to be without a recent picture of you and without an idea of your new voice. Childhood friendship can lead to this sort of thing. Imagine, knowing a person — a friend — for so many years without pause, then realizing one day that it’s been almost four years to the day since you’ve last seen a thing of each other. It strikes me as something pretty severe, but not impossible to resolve. You know that, you know that I’m trying. I can see you reading the messages.
When I was on vacation, I found that it's more than physical presence that keeps desire on the mind. I stood and watched from a mountainside as the ground around a volcano shook and some ancient launch system ejected colour into the sky: a geyser of hot orange, flying like drink spilled from a cup. I watched as it settled. I found that I could see only one thing continuing in the aftermath: sprinkles of red dripping from all the jagged rock and evaporating into the black sand. I spotted these speckles and was reminded of you. All I could think was, "how can this be?" How could I be so far away and still catch on the thought of an image, a miniature field of bronze on a head?
I have to wonder what makes it harder, my overexcitement, your hesitancy, or all the other habits you’ve gone on to pick up since we last talked, to fill my emptied spaces. There’s also the fact that between age 15 and now there can be a lot of changes — of which I have no clue which you’ve faced.
I'm going to start drawing again, so I can sketch you and say I did something for you. I'll draw you like I did everyone who got stuck in my head back then. Since you're not someone I can sing along to yet, I'll just draw you instead. I'll let the lines be lyrics, the curves form the words. Put one and two together, this and that whatever, until it starts to come together and I can see you without an old picture on my phone. I'm building something new that brings us into the present — if from the interaction of us (even in thought alone) comes creation we must be worthwhile. It doesn't matter if these pictures I use are from six years ago, I'm creating another one that's from today, so legacy becomes this literal moment instead. Eventually I'll get you on the phone: the person in today's picture, I'll get to know again.
So can I stumble through old memories with you? Just while we get our bearings? While we figure out how to be alone together — again.
There are three dots I want to put in this space.
To transition between picturing the present and imagining the future.
I don't want you to be big in my mind, but I don't want you small either. I don't want to see you become only another name on my phone screen. I don't want you like that.
I want to say this is a familiar feeling with a new taste. Thoughts from back then, again, in a new situation.
I want you to settle down for once.
I want to give you your first stable spot since we watched time split our families from the top. Can you come meet me in the middle if I pick you up at the Odeon parking lot? I'll build you a fire if it rains. We can sit in silence for as long as it takes. I'll make us dinner while it's still cloudy with that prime shade of grey.
I can try to plan us a way, while you lay still, in repose all day. I'll come cover you with blankets, wipe the sweat away as soon as you start to shed the sick in your brain. I'll bring you breakfast at the table, while your headache's still heavy and bring you an Advil to send it away without a word. I'll wash the sheets and make the bed while you're warm at the fire. I'll dampen my clothes to play with you, some sports in the rain, like tennis without a net in the yard. Maybe we end up with badminton in the sun once we start staying out long.
Eventually, wordplay begins: You tell me about your day while I vacuum the carpet. You put on some music and ask me if there's anything I want to play. The next day, I inflate the bikes' tires and I ask you if there's any place you should be. You start to think about it and come back at midday with a nod when I ask again. You ask me if much has changed, I say, "not enough for you to lose your way." That night I close the garage door to just one bike remaining and eat dinner alone. I light a candle in your bedroom and close the window. I leave the blinds open, the door closed.
I draw the curtains in the morning when I find I'm still alone. The wind is gentle and the day is okay. I go to the beach at sunset and read about Achilles under a tree. The sunset is orange today, deep, hued with purple at the point where blue finally transcends the colour of the afternoon. Tomorrow morning you'll call while I'm moody and say you'll stay out another night. When we hang up, I'll cry for a moment before resolving to watch TV while I eat. When you do come back on Sunday morning, we'll go to church together and pass an hour, a Trinity with God, You and Me.
We meet in the middle, I speak Spanish, you speak Italian, God — per usual — says nothing. I understand every fifth word you say. Babel becomes us in an hour, but we rely on trust, so we stay anyway. We come home to find we are thirsty for more, so all night we stay up to parlay one conversation into an infinite-feeling thing, an eternal friendship-guarantee. And the sun rises as it sets, with us together, again. I make your bed for you; you bring me the sheets. I come upon the extinguished candle by the window and smile. We open the window, and head down to eat. You close the door behind you.
You tell me, "There's something I want you to see." You ask me if you can take me there before tomorrow comes, and I agree. As we prepare to head out, I fill you a bottle of water and you get the keys.
We're about to leave as the sun begins to set.
You bring me to the driveway and close the door as we leave.
We drive to the old café on The Four Corners — never mind that it’s not there anymore. You open the door for me, and we sit in the most familiar seats.
I start to see all these memories, before we even say anything, before there’s even been time to sit down. I hear this old laughter when I look away out the window, and when I turn back, I find it’s actually you, now, finding some old thing to laugh about. I have a dark feeling deep in my chest that I feel crack open, like a lock’s just broken and whatever’s inside comes roaring out. You order two hot cups when the waitress comes up, while I’m just sitting there stuck in this moment of release without being able to say anything. When the hot chocolate comes to our table and your coffee follows soon after, I’m only feeling raw inside, with a bunch of smatterings of other feelings boiling on my skin. It feels like it might go on forever, but I know it has to be a momentary thing — everything comes together, that’s what breaks this feeling right out of me.
It’s comfortable, it’s you, smiling at me, warm air from the heating and the drinks and the traffic of the busiest street in the town we grew up in — out of. That’s it, when it strikes me: After so many years, some words to patch it up. You get a call, you ask me for a minute to answer it. You get up to go outside and take it. I find words echoing in my head, all about this moment of finality — the long silence is over. So ,I do what I should, I write it out.
After so many years,
Some words do patch it up.
In a café ,
Over one coffee cup.
Two entangled souls,
Stepping out from between strings.
On a cold winter day, it feels like spring.
Pablo Palacios‘s short story, Letter to You placed fourth in our writing contest. Palacios is a very recent graduate of Nantyr Shores Secondary School in Innisfil, Ontario.