The day the dandelions sprouted, I found myself thinking, there are still beautiful things. That evening, I walked home in a sort of drunken haze Kicking pebbles, spotting angel numbers, colours seemingly brighter than the day before, birds chirping for the first time in months, geese honking, and I thought, If I could paint this moment, capture it in art I’d hope to be timeless, I’d call it, the ducks are out.
In August, the dandelions had long died. I was seated under a shade, in a caffeinated high, watching the sun lose its glow beyond the clouds, Store doorbells going off, cars whooshing by, traffic lights alternating green, amber, red, A figure walking towards me with the gait of someone growing into their body, trying out new walks; a bounce in their steps, a sleight in their leg, awkward hair flips. I took a picture of him, and I thought if I could paint it, I’d call it, the happy days.
That year I learnt how fleeting happiness could be, and our inclination to be stubbornly oblivious to its presence. Almost like its presence was a cruel trick. ‘Remember when we stayed up all night, talking and laughing and talking?’ ‘How is it even possible to talk all night?’ But we did. And when morning came, and the first cafe opened, we ordered in and slept off waiting for breakfast. ‘God, I wish we could go back to those days,’ you’d whisper. ‘Ah, the good times’.
I met Sam that same year. Sam with an acquired predisposition to catastrophise. All my memories of that year are muddled with him. Sam in the restaurant bathroom blowing out scented vapour from a vape pen, and then offering it to me, Looking for parking space on a Friday night downtown, and a parking warden telling him it costs ten dollars for the night. Explaining the tattoo on his thigh. Something about God and highs and lows. Going off about Catholic churches and cancer and jobs and plans that never included me. Sam always fidgeting, a constant reminder of his ephemeral presence.
Looking back now, I think of all the moments I’ve loved in retrospect. All the books I felt indifferent about, but stayed with me like a nagging thought, months after I’ve closed them. I think of people that made me laugh at odd times and how in my saddest moments, I’d try to remember what they said. Rekindling past flames, trying to recreate a moment in time. Almost like asking lightning to strike the same place twice. I’d think of slangs I’d hated at the moment, and how I’d catch them in a movie years later and try to revive them.
By November of that year, I’d romanticised the entire summer, albeit being a reluctant passenger the whole time. Sam would be on the video call philosophizing again, and he’d send me a picture he took with my pink Jansport school bag. Do you still have this bag? He’d say. ‘God, I miss you’ I’d immediately think of the Taylor Swift song, about looking better in the rearview.
Comments