The tapestry’s oldest threads, frail and faded with time, still had the echo of
their once brilliant shade of silver, the color of ice; the color of cold. The
shade had faded over time, into almost gray, as foggy as the memory of that
first day. But behind those layers of ice, there was warmth, a glimmer of the
person I would become. Behind the faded gray, there was the slightest hint of
gold.
The grating sound of the pencil sharpener rang in my ears. The smell of ink laced the air. Twenty heads were hunched over their desks, scribbling furiously. I walked slowly to my desk, and sat down. I put the pencil to the page, and the classroom fell away. I was walking in the twilight filtering through the trees high above my head, my steps making no noise on the mossy ground. I was ghost, less than air, a memory drifting through a make believe world.
Words materialized across my paper, line after line of a voice speaking through my hand. I let the voice take me away again, listening to the story that it whispered in my ear. I was only the audience to a silent storyteller. It showed me places I have never seen before, places that may not have even existed. But they were as real to me as my own bedroom. I met people who could stand the test of time, and break free of the bounds of space. They appeared when they were called upon, never changing, however long they were away.
Day after day, I recorded the story, listening to the words the characters had to tell me. All the while, the voices grew fainter, softening until one day, I could no longer hear them. They were silent; their story was finished.
I missed my friends, felt so empty without them. I knew I had to hear their story again, but not just for me; this was something that had to be shared. I knew I would have to do the one thing I was afraid to do. I had to read it to the class. But it had to be done; my characters had to live on.
My fear vanished when I started the first line. I was back in those now familiar places, hearing the voices of my lost friends. The class hung on my every word, as absorbed by the story as I was. And that was when I knew; I was going to be a writer. As I finished the story, silence hung on the other kids, awed by the story I had shared. But that didn’t matter. Already, I could hear the faint voice of another tale calling my name.
It was the biggest school I had ever been in, and I had to find my way around it by myself. One hundred bodies pressed against me as I fought the current of students flowing down the hallway. The air smelled musty and old, like it was stale from standing still all summer.
The bang of lockers slamming sounded like distant thunder, vibrating the floor. I was surrounded by people on all sides, and yet I never felt so alone. Room numbers flashed by, until I spotted the one I was looking for; sixth grade communication arts. I was finally here.
New faces looked back at me across the classroom. I found my seat in the back, and was about to open my book when a tiny, bubblegum voice broke the awkward silence. "Hi!" it was the girl sitting next to me, who had turned and was talking to me excitedly. She tossed her hair around as she talked her enthusiasm tangible. "I'm Kelly! What's your name?" I smiled, glad that I had someone to talk to. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so alone and lost. In fact, I felt like I finally belonged. I felt alive.
The night was warm, humidity hung thickly in the air. I walked sluggishly up to my front door, shin pads scraping together. The handle stuck, the door opening, breaking the suction with a loud smack. I swung my bag into the darkness inside, closed the door, and sat down on the cold slate steps. Exhaustion radiated through me, weighing me down. I was so tired; I didn’t hear the door open behind me.
Sophie was my little sister. She was like a beam of moonlight, illuminating and enchanting. There was never a time when a smile didn’t light up her face. That was how I new something was very wrong when she came to sit out in the summer night with me. Her face showed the worry of a thousand lifetimes. I didn’t need her words to tell me that something had happened; I read it in her tears.
When you are a child, you never think of your parents’ lives before you were in it. But Sophie’s news forced me to imagine my mother as a little girl, sitting in her windowsill, watching rain collect on the glass outside. I saw her my age, racing time across a field. I saw her in Spain, her dark hair a tangle around her face, as she learned to speak a new language. You would have never known, but all that time, something was growing in her brain, something that had no right to be there.
This something changed my life, brought it much closer to death. I didn’t even notice when it started to rain. My world was already melting.
The waves rocked me gently, pulling me further out. I floated on my back, letting the cold water wash over me. Light reflected off the blue-green surface, making the waves sparkle like stars. The taste of salt sat on my tongue, the flavor of summer. The ocean has a way of making one seem so very small and insignificant. It lets you look at life outside yourself.
Water filled my ears, quieting the world. I closed my eyes, letting the sun’s warmth dance across my face. All traces of worry slipped from my mind, and I suddenly felt very at ease. I thought about my life, about all the things I have seen. I thought about that day I decided to be a writer. I thought about my first day at cab, when I met my best friend. And I remembered the day that changed me, when I found out my mother had a tumor. I had seen good and bad, triumph and failure, happiness and sorrow. I smiled as I realized that this was only the beginning. There was still so much to come, so many more things to see. The tapestry was filled with bright bold colors. Sunny yellow melded with royal blue, vibrant green with midnight black. And stretching from the rainbow was a blank stretch of canvas. It was a clean slate, and unfinished story. A life that still needed living. |
