When life juxtaposes and you can't help but ponder
My eyes scan the rows of tombstones, each one different from the other, each one representing a person, a soul, a story I'll never know. My heart beats, I am alive, and I run through the rows of death. As I run, the morning sunshine casts small shadows, but mostly the cemetery is filled with light and I can see dew-drops if I look closely enough. Running speeds things up though, it makes life suddenly seem a production of cinematography and the smallest details blend in with the backdrop until everything is incorporated to create a sensation akin to that of a movie scene. Simultaneously I am actress and spectator.
As if the director had refocused the camera lens, my eye catches a peculiar object. I see a solider statue, but then he moves and he's not a statue, he's a He and He's alive. My feet falter, but only for a moment. It's near 7am and I wonder what he is doing standing there, almost in a posture of reverie. He wears a helmet and I can see his motorcycle parked a few feet away in the middle of the cemetery. I continue running along the path and though I look for him while coming around the other side, I cannot find him. He was in the movie, yet his name won't be in the credits. Looking to my right and left, I am surrounded by names, and one begins to wonder what difference it makes to have your name known when no one knows your story.
"3..2..1..roll film.." I am in Denison Park. I see a monument honoring veterans and I manage to read the last three words: freedom isn't free. I am jogging and my memory is jogged. Now I am in a different place; I see a mug, it's navy blue. Its warm contents are steaming and there's a gentle yet determined hand beside it--thumb and index finger rub along the handle of the mug while the other hand is laid on a red and white checkered table cloth. The fingers on this hand slowly open and close, feeling the fabric in a habitual manner as if he's always testing to feel where he is--it's a habit that could wear out the ends of armrests on chairs.
I don't know what the conversation is--there were many of them--so many I wish that I could remember, that I could capture them again and hear his words and the way he thoughtfully formed his sentences. He lifts the mug and sips his hot water. He sets it down again and from where I sit at the table, I can read the words on the mug: freedom isn't free.
When he first died, I bemoaned that I couldn't immediately remember every moment I had with him. But memory is a labyrinth of things that come to mind when you least anticipate them, and my life from here on out will have those moments of Grandpa's life coming back to memory until the day that I join him once more.
My right foot hurts. I had dropped the end of a knife on it while baking the day before and now it's bruised. I'm trying to forget the pain and run through it, yet I'm also in a state of enjoyment as I observe flowers and beauty around me. I look up at the moon--it is large, white, and the bottom edge of it is nearly opaque as it fades into the ever-brightening blue sky. I look down at my feet and I can see how I only let one foot touch each square of the sidewalk. I keep pace, it hurts, and I run on.
I am no longer running. In fact, I am no longer in Corning. My heart is racing though. Racing from amazement. I am in awe as I slip my face in the water, trying out my sister's snorkeling mask for the first time. I see with awesome clarity the unseen beauty of the land beneath the water I had been swimming in. All along I had simply thought it was brownish sand with lurking pieces of lake weed and now it is actually a habitat worthy of admiration. I am caught up in wonderment and swim far out. Subconsciously aware that I have gone out further than usual, I begin to swim back to shore. I'm still so excited about it that my heart doesn't calm down till I allow myself some time to sit in a tree. It's a strange sensation, to go from water to treetop.
And it is strange to go from life to death to life again. It is strange to see poverty and wealth, and beauty intermixed through it all. It is all strange and I don't claim to understand, but I seek, I observe, I sleuth out the mystery and let it mystify me. Maybe, as time goes on, I will see a color, I will read a word, I will smell something, and it will seamlessly click in my mind the way that an editor pieces together moments that are seemingly at odds with one another. Maybe the contradictions in the world aren't contradictions at all, and maybe pain and relief, joy and sadness, life and death can actually coexist and we just don't always understand how.
As if the director had refocused the camera lens, my eye catches a peculiar object. I see a solider statue, but then he moves and he's not a statue, he's a He and He's alive. My feet falter, but only for a moment. It's near 7am and I wonder what he is doing standing there, almost in a posture of reverie. He wears a helmet and I can see his motorcycle parked a few feet away in the middle of the cemetery. I continue running along the path and though I look for him while coming around the other side, I cannot find him. He was in the movie, yet his name won't be in the credits. Looking to my right and left, I am surrounded by names, and one begins to wonder what difference it makes to have your name known when no one knows your story.
"3..2..1..roll film.." I am in Denison Park. I see a monument honoring veterans and I manage to read the last three words: freedom isn't free. I am jogging and my memory is jogged. Now I am in a different place; I see a mug, it's navy blue. Its warm contents are steaming and there's a gentle yet determined hand beside it--thumb and index finger rub along the handle of the mug while the other hand is laid on a red and white checkered table cloth. The fingers on this hand slowly open and close, feeling the fabric in a habitual manner as if he's always testing to feel where he is--it's a habit that could wear out the ends of armrests on chairs.
I don't know what the conversation is--there were many of them--so many I wish that I could remember, that I could capture them again and hear his words and the way he thoughtfully formed his sentences. He lifts the mug and sips his hot water. He sets it down again and from where I sit at the table, I can read the words on the mug: freedom isn't free.
When he first died, I bemoaned that I couldn't immediately remember every moment I had with him. But memory is a labyrinth of things that come to mind when you least anticipate them, and my life from here on out will have those moments of Grandpa's life coming back to memory until the day that I join him once more.
My right foot hurts. I had dropped the end of a knife on it while baking the day before and now it's bruised. I'm trying to forget the pain and run through it, yet I'm also in a state of enjoyment as I observe flowers and beauty around me. I look up at the moon--it is large, white, and the bottom edge of it is nearly opaque as it fades into the ever-brightening blue sky. I look down at my feet and I can see how I only let one foot touch each square of the sidewalk. I keep pace, it hurts, and I run on.
I am no longer running. In fact, I am no longer in Corning. My heart is racing though. Racing from amazement. I am in awe as I slip my face in the water, trying out my sister's snorkeling mask for the first time. I see with awesome clarity the unseen beauty of the land beneath the water I had been swimming in. All along I had simply thought it was brownish sand with lurking pieces of lake weed and now it is actually a habitat worthy of admiration. I am caught up in wonderment and swim far out. Subconsciously aware that I have gone out further than usual, I begin to swim back to shore. I'm still so excited about it that my heart doesn't calm down till I allow myself some time to sit in a tree. It's a strange sensation, to go from water to treetop.
And it is strange to go from life to death to life again. It is strange to see poverty and wealth, and beauty intermixed through it all. It is all strange and I don't claim to understand, but I seek, I observe, I sleuth out the mystery and let it mystify me. Maybe, as time goes on, I will see a color, I will read a word, I will smell something, and it will seamlessly click in my mind the way that an editor pieces together moments that are seemingly at odds with one another. Maybe the contradictions in the world aren't contradictions at all, and maybe pain and relief, joy and sadness, life and death can actually coexist and we just don't always understand how.
Beautiful eloquence, as always <3
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