Remebrances

When I was still a very little boy, I made a cherished friend of death. Death became my protector, my solace, my refuge of last resort. It was not so much that I had made the connection that I could take my own life. It was simply that I had come to believe that, if my life became unhappy enough, some deliverance, in the form of some quick, tragic accident, would fall upon me and sweep me away from my tiny, perfect misery. To me, death was a beautiful thing, noble and preserving, and if timely enough, the one thing that would save me from growing up and assuming the burdens I could see weighing down the adults around me, and from the natural changes that I had begun to perceive would befall me one day, stripping from me the purity that even then I understood myself to possess; a fragile gift that life slowly buffs away from every child. Only if death would smile upon me, gentle and kind, would I be forever, what I was.

In my dreams, and in my daydreams, I was haunted by bright spectres of children passed away, friends who I did not know, but who beckoned to me to join in their eternal spring and boundless youth. I would lie on my back beneath the summer sky and see in the clouds the frothy kingdoms in their sway; the freedom of the 60s so recently past mirrored forever in their journeys. In pressing my ear to the telephone poles, I would imagine the deep-throated electrical hum to be the sound of their hands, rubbing the wood as they hurried around and around it just below me, like some subterranean Maypole of death. I would almost hear their laughter, and I would yearn so deep inside nearly to split me open, and launch up my soul, like some butterfly bursting forth from a cocoon. I would see my happy friend, death, in teasing glimpses; always close by me, but never taking my hand. And every day I woke up, still weighted down by the flesh, and by fear, and by sorrows too tiny and crystal-sharp to be remembered.

My sense of it all became only more acute with passing time. As I grew in years and wisdom, I sensed my moment slipping away. One day the news came that a boy I’d known, a couple of years older than me, had been struck by a car as he rode his bicycle home from the store. The drunken driver had left him there, in the ditch, perhaps never even knowing. To me, who and what the driver had been were completely unimportant: he was merely the anonymous instrument by which my friend had acquired that longed-for ascension. And when I heard the news, my thoughts passed only lightly over the shattering grief of the mother who had carried him, the father who had watched him grow, and the teenage brother and sister who had had a part of themselves ripped away like teeth. What blazed in me was a curious jealousy, that he had made it, achieved election to that coveted elite that eluded me. I was still too young to appreciate the horror of it; the wrenching pain both physical and mental. I saw only a moment’s suffering, the nobility of the shed blood, the dimming of the light as newfound friends appeared, pressing closer. To me, it was nothing more than a higher, liberating birth, with beauty and honour preserved. Why him, instead of me? I wanted to be lamented. Bereaved. Too late the cherished boy, petrified forever in memory, and innocence. Saved from those trials and sins that would surely have tarnished me.

And then it happened: the world showed me at last what it had to offer, and I learned to fear death. The glorious wickedness of the world rose around me, and showed me what a joy it was to be an animal, however finite, and intoxicated me with the realm of sensuality. And the worst betrayal of all was that I gave myself over to it, and quietly lost my soul. Just as I had feared I would.

Nearly two decades had passed with me firmly, and willingly, fixed to this world when it happened. It was very late on a Friday night. I might even say it was really Saturday morning. Quiet and alone, I pushed a wobbly wheeled cart through a suburban supermarket, glancing down at a list on an envelope and keeping true to it like some ersatz revision of the Ten Commandments; thou shalt buy canned corn. The shalt nots were unlisted, but assumed to be anything not on the list.

I pushed the cart into the very heart of the supermarket, the broad, town square of the frozen foods, with its waterless reflecting pools filled with cheap dinners and bargain garbage pizzas. Across the wide vista I saw an elderly woman, paused. In the glass before her, I could see the consternation, the deep self-absorption in her features, and I suddenly knew, just as she was becoming aware, that she was in acute distress. She staggered, falling to her knees, and then rolled onto her side with a strange little cry.

There were other people in the aisle, and their strangeness to this woman evaporated as they hurried to her. A man in a white smock who clearly worked at the store took charge of the efforts on her behalf, but I myself, for some reason, held back. Fascinated. A few people crowded in close to the woman, and a few hung by at the ready. But one, I noticed, milled about, hands behind his back, watching. He looked to me a bit like Jimmy Durante, dressed in corduroy, and I noticed he cast no shadow. Not even onto himself. His features, his clothes, every aspect of him was lit in the same, even, pale illumination. With a soft smile he glanced up at me, and tapped the brim of his fedora in greeting. And I knew who it was, and a chill of recognition ran over me like cold tap water.

Everything slowed down… the motions of the people became lethargic. The sounds of their voices became thick and syrupy, as did the quiet Muzak cheerfully seeing this woman off. I watched my old friend step out of sight beyond the edge of the row. When everything was still, and the only sound was the electric hum and my own breathing, I abandoned my cart, and ran down the row, past the shoppers who were now statuary, a study of a community in common crisis. Rounding the corner, I fully expected to find him gone, but there he stood, amongst the cereals, casual, waiting.

“You do remember, don’t you?” he said.

“How could I forget?” I croaked, softly. “It hasn’t been that long, even for me.”

“The way we used to run together,” he said. “You always had the gift.”

“Why didn’t you…” I began. But it was a question from a five year old, and my adult voice balked at it.

“I understand,” he said. “Why didn’t I come for you as a blossom instead of an ordinary orange, is that right?”

“Something like that.” I was a bit stung, the way a person might be when a spurning friend or lover explains the hows and whys.

“Did it ever occur to you, that however beautiful the blossom might be, the world has more need of the oranges?”

“But why not me? There were others…”

“Paul,” he said. My friend on the bike.

“Yeah,” I whispered.

“There are reasons. For everyone, where and when, it all has to work together.”

“Will I understand one day?”

“Probably not. But it won’t seem important to you then.”

I nodded softly.

“It all comes out the same, I promise you,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

He raised his arm slowly, and in its wake, the real world faded like the broken ripples of a pond… and beneath them, I saw, just for a moment, a glimpse of what had once been so real for me. In laughter, at play, so clean and colourful. A girl met my gaze, and smiled. I don’t know how I knew, or how my soul recognized her without needing my eyes, but I knew, without even the sense of realization, that this little girl, and the woman lying behind the row, were one and same. And I finally understood that the redemption was assured, and I had not missed some golden chance. I could carry on with what the world demanded of me, and still come out alright. Then the ripples faded, and with them the man, the figure of my old friend, and I stood alone while some flatulent trombone quietly squeezed out “Paperback Writer” on the PA over my head.

People seemed awkward, wondering to themselves if they should continue such a mundane task as picking up groceries in the wake of what had happened. For myself, I returned to my cart, and observing a moment of respectful reflection, I went about finding the canned corn.