#** bright lights are fading | visage; jesse | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

blue-echoinglights · 4 years

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alterplex

(adj.) divided, twofold, double.

My first clear memory of the heavens was of fear.

The night was young still, and I just as much. My hair was short and curly and stuck to my forehead, and my chin rested neatly on the edge of my grandmother’s jacuzzi. The water was near boiling, and my already pruned skin had begun to turn pink.

I refused to get out, though. Her porch overlooked the hills, and the air was crisp and gentle. Inside I could hear quiet voices, my brother having gotten out long before me and my grandfather beginning to head to bed.

Still, I remained.

I wasn’t sure why, but I felt that I had to wait. Had to keep my eyes pinned to the horizon, full of shining pricks of light and navy skies. The wind brought a chill that was strong enough to overtake the warm water, but the gooseflesh on my arms gave me no pause. There was something here for me, I was certain. Something I needed to know.

I waited. The churning of the pool water did not cease, and neither did my gaze. And, soon enough, the heavens answered.

A bright shot of a star scattered across the sky, followed quickly by its brothers and sisters. They danced across my irises, light footed and infallible in their journey. Though it lasted a mere minute, their effect was not lost on me.

I felt afraid.

A wish was mercilessly strangled in my throat. My fingers shook, scattering droplets of water on the tiles beside me. My tear ducts burned, and I brought one chlorine-drenched palm to rub them frantically.

Wish on a star, and it shall come true, they say.

I missed it. I missed it.

As much as I had wanted to wish, I felt raw. Seen. God had sent his children and they had looked straight through my being.

How could you even ask a favor of something so ethereal? So powerful? A being that danced across the rolling universe, wholly free and without their feet chained to the filth of the ground? Earth-walker that I am, I feel inadequate, inferior.

I stumbled out of the water, slippery and hasty in my escape. My heart was beating too fast, like I had encountered a wild animal.The light on the porch flicked on, and I startled. As I took a towel from my grandmother, shivering, I stole one more glance away towards the night.

It was silent, dull. Nothing was present, nothing to warrant my fear.

I swallowed and shut the door.

That night, I realized that promises and wishes were for people who were true, and connected, and close.

Human that I am, I’ve never been close to heaven.

I’m not sure when I realized my family was lying to me, exactly.

I knew my parents disagreed with my mom’s family occasionally. But I was a child. I didn’t understand. They seemed like good people.

My grandpa Jesse was a pilot, good with electronics and woodworking. His garage always smelled like wood shavings and engine grease, but his hands were soft. He liked to read before bed and tuck my hair behind my ears, and I loved to sit in front on his dirt bike and whoop as we flew over desert sand. My hiking boots used to warm with the heat of the engine, and I was always fiddling with the gas cap and getting covered in grease and exhaust. He called me sweetheart.

My grandmother Linda always smelled like antique lavender. She had a habit of running her manicured nails over her palms, and always had raspberry vitamin water in the fridge. She spoke with a slight New York accent and I used to laugh at how she said washer like wersher. She laughed often and loudly, but always seemed to maintain a constrained air, like I could see hidden thoughts behind her eyes if I looked for long enough.

They were a dream, the fun grandparents. We camped in the desert and had bonfires and baked cookies and played with their golden retriever. They liked my drawings and listened eagerly when I told them about my horse riding lessons and they tucked me in at night.

It was a fairytale, really.

We are cleaning my closet out and coughing away dust when it comes back to me.

It was a fuzzy memory, dreamlike; the words warped around my head and shapes indistinguishable. My hand held in an adult’s, their face blurred and uncertain. Your cousin, they say, handing me the paw of a teddy bear. He was in a terrible fight. We don’t know if he’s gonna make it. A frown, my five year old visage scrunching up in confusion. I fiddle with the bear and twist my head around, looking between the lines of different people that surround me.

The bear sits on my shelf now, soft and floppy still, if not a bit faded. Wiping my hands, I turn to my mother- “What ever happened to my cousin Nick anyways? When he was in the hospital from that fight?” It’s been ten years, but everyone would remember that, right?

My mom stops folding my old dress clothes, frowning. “What fight? He never was admitted to the hospital for anything like that.”

I sit back. Both of us are confused now, it seems. I wave her away.

My mind brings me another one, Your parents never wanted you to fly with grandpa- but they won’t know-, and why don’t you ask your parents? They are so strict- and all your cousins are coming to visit, but we haven’t seen you in a while, and I know your brother asked but we wanted to see you do it first-

Next to the bear is an old card, signed with my grandparent’s signatures and a little plane drawing. The lines are long and sloping and I get lost for a second, wondering, who knows the truth anyways?

My older brother was a smart kid. He loved electronics and computers, he loved train engines and flying and broke our desktop until he could fix it again. He was the algebra to my art, the chemistry to my english. He was sweet and looked very little like me, our dad’s genes far more prominent in his red brown hair and kind eyes.

And we fought. Oh, did we fight. We fought like we were afraid to stop. We fought with words and pulled hair and even bites, if I was angry enough. We fought like scared cats.

I was young still, seven or eight. My grandparents had a quiet side room near their office, with sea green walls and mint bed sheets. The desk had an old fashioned rotary phone, next to a golden frame of my cousin’s faces. I stared at my bare feet, hung off the side of the mattress like a doll with the springs cut. My knuckles were fisted in the sheets.

The only light came from the hallway, and I could hear my grandpa’s quiet voice carrying from the TV room. Something in my chest burned, but I didn’t look away from my toes.

My fingers tightened further, pulling at the rough threads of the sheets. What was this ugly feeling? It settled, dark and nasty, at the pit of my stomach. I wanted to say it was unfamiliar, but it wasn’t. It haunted me, here, like my grandparent’s house stretched and pulled at my shadows until my voice was loud and biting and hurtful.

It brought out the worst in me.

(Here’s another view: In another room, my brother sits in bed and wonders, What did I do to make my family hate me? Why does my sister know how to get their love and I am so incapable? Why does the engineer in this house pay more attention to a seven year old’s art than my own mechanical questions? Why do our parents disagree so much with grandma and grandpa, why do they treat us like- like- but why Why why Why-)

When we get home, my parents separate us until the dark feeling in my chest goes away. When it finally clears, I wonder why I fought with my brother in the first place.

I am sitting in the kitchen late one night, slurping my way through some corn puffs, when my mom tells me my grandmother tried to commit suicide when my mom was thirteen.

I’m not sure why I did, but I had asked when she had finally felt like an adult. With her reply, I set down my spoon and purse my lips. I cannot come up with a good reply. Who could, to that? I choose to wait instead.

“I found her in the garage leaning over the washer. I guess she tried to take too many of her pills, gotten too deep. I wasn’t sure. I remember the sirens, the firefighters putting her on a stretcher and not asking any questions.

I knew she had a rough childhood, abuse, assault, you know, the works. But I don’t think she ever dealt with it properly.”

My mom’s fingers are cradling a mug, and her eyes are a little misty.

“She never treated my youngest brother right. Mark. He was the family scapegoat, I guess, and she turned on him. He used to act out, I remember. Glued the locks shut once.” She lets out a short laugh at that. “And my middle brother, Paul- he was the favorite. I think he knew it, used to get away with everything.”

Her eyes have gone a little hard, and I’m still silent. Despite the fact I was an adult myself, I knew very little about my parent’s early lives. The basics, sure, but very little besides. I’m beginning to understand why.

“I was the adult.” She says, bitter. “I was their mother. My mom was better friends with the girls at church then she was with her own daughter.”

She takes a sip of her tea, and I look away.

I think about harsh words, and favoritism, and second meanings hidden behinds platitudes, and I wonder, did I really know the truth?

Packed away under my bed is a shoebox.

I didn’t hide filthy magazines or old diaries in there, just old cards. In that shoebox lay the words of two decade’s worth of birthdays, easters, christmas, and graduations.

Some of them sparkled, some of them made noise, some of them had little slots for giftcards, some of them had my name spelled wrong and “Happy Birthday, Granddaughter!” in swirly feminine writing.

Most of them were scrap, I knew. We don’t talk to my aunts or uncles and I stopped getting cards from them years ago. Whenever I got cards from my grandparents, they were filled corner to corner with we still love you and we hope to see you visit again and what a beautiful young lady you’ve become.

The last one rankles for more reasons than one, but I never throw the cards out.

Whenever one comes in the mail, my mom gets a nervous shine to her eyes. A pursed lip. “What did they say, now?” she’ll ask, and I’ll hold up a big check and a two page letter from my grandmother. She says nothing in reply. I’ll skim over the letter, but feel very little in response to the words.

(In another scene, my grandmother hands my mother a card with a smile. On it, her name swirls in pretty handwriting- but not her married name. Never her married name.

There is a reminder, there. Don’t forget who you truly belong with, it says. You can’t leave us behind, it whispers. Not ever)

I never throw the cards out.

What do you do with empty words, anyways?

Shortly before my great grandmother passed away, the family threw her a vibrant 90th birthday celebration.

The venue was at their old church, awash with the fresh scent of spring and the warming of the afternoon air. There is a music performance by an old friend, lots of cake, and nostalgic stories were shared relentlessly.

She was a firecracker, my great grandmother Jean.

Her hair was always done up and pinned perfectly, neat little waves and swirls held in place. I had never seen it down. According to my mother, it was a source of pride and a rare sight to see- my great grandmother’s hair used to be a deep ukrainian ebony, straight and well past her hips. It gleamed a proud silver in the light of the spring sun, that day.

I had been gifted her name when I was born. Jean. “God is gracious”. She had raised three young boys with a husband away at war, with the great depression on their heels and very little family left. She had told me once, echoed by the clock ticking on the wall of her kitchen, that it taught her value. She had grabbed my hands, oh so similar to hers, and shown me her cactus garden and her birds and her art. She had smiled with her cheeks and her little head tilt and told me about love.

Looking back at that church room, I realized that her sheer will was the only thing holding that family together.

(Here is a different view of that room: My father has been talked over for the third time in one conversation. There is a slight circle of avoidance around my uncle Mark’s table, one my mother and I have dared to cross. He is tall and imposing, but he shows me his camera and compliments my creativity. My cousin waits a bit further away, nothing to say to me. My grandmother tells my brother and I, once again, that it was a shame I didn’t want to perform for my great grandmother on my flute. In a hushed conversation, my mom’s cousins criticize my great uncle’s suicide. A drunkard, they say. Drowned himself to death, they snicker.)

The drive home was silent.

I don’t really know when I started noticing the fairytale had soured.

Age provided a different perspective, a distance to my childhood that allowed me to see the realizations that had led me to that conclusion. Maybe it was when I snuck around the corner of my parents’ office, seeing them spending hours drafting emails and pacing on the phone. Maybe it was when I looked back and thought, why did everyone have a different story to my memories? A different truth? Who told lies to a child?

Maybe it was when after seven years of silence, my mother decided to have coffee with my uncle Mark and apologize. Maybe it was the following shouting match that night on the phone. Maybe it was after we saw my grandparents only three times a year, twice a year, once a year. Maybe it was after I stopped fighting with my brother, maybe it was after I heard the nasty words my great aunt had thrown at my mother when they thought I wasn’t listening. Maybe it was after we got home from a family reunion and I had felt sick, feeling like I had played a role in a twisted storybook.

Maybe it started, and ended, with the heavens and emptied truths and promises.

One of the last few times we camp in the desert with the family, I lost my vision for around an hour.

The sky was as clear as it could get, and on those nights you could see the sprawling glow of the Milky Way. We would build bonfires out of wooden crates, and pour gasoline into the sand and watch the heat spiral up into the stars.

I was never a fan of the smoke, but I liked to sit in the lawn chairs and drink pepsi and giggle at my dad’s jokes. I used to race my cousins through the sand dunes and they would pretend to lose, and I used to carry around our dogs and collect petrified wood and squeal at scorpions.

The men used to take out their guns and shoot aluminum cans, old junk cars, wooden posts. If they weren’t shooting those, my uncle Paul would pull out the rockets and shoot fireworks into the sky. It was one of those nights, watching them pop and crackle and scatter across the rolling hills of the universe, that I realized I could not see.

My chin had been pointed to the sky, neck aching, my jaw hung open in wonder. The fireworks looked like shooting bullets, shooting stars full of color. The smell of gunpowder and sulfur was suspended in the air, nostalgic and heavy. I kept my eyes trained on the heavens.

My eyes began to sting. My right eye burned viciously, and I jerked my head down towards the ground. I thought for a second that it was just the bonfire smoke- I turned away from the people gathered, laughing and jeering at each other in their excitement.

It did little for my eye. I couldn’t open it at that point, and it was puffy and swollen. I stumbled inside to the nearest trailer, opening the bathroom cabinet and scattering eye drops. Little by little, the oily blackness that had overtaken my vision began to recede. I was left staring at my reflection in a tiny plastic wall mirror, lit up only by the occasional burst of light from the windows and the red emergency exit light.

My hair was curled against my forehead, dusty and disheveled. My arms were a bit chilled from the desert night, and I shivered. My eyes drained tears, the veins swollen and angry. A hand came up to touch gently at my cheek.

There rested a small colorful tear, a remnant of the falling stars I had been so enthralled with. The paper had slashed my eyes, the burning gunpowder had attacked my tear ducts. Staring at the piece of firework paper, I couldn’t help but be reminded of that night on a porch, lit up by falling stars.

(Staring up at those fireworks, I had wished that it could last. That my fairytale could be honest.

The heavens had sent a reply.

Wishes are for things that are true, honest, connected. And your fairytale had never been any of those things.)

fin

#mine #my writing #this is not even half of what it could be but i hope you enjoyed!#family be bONKERS amiright #text

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