Some Essays

[Prom_STar]

My English class semester was all about memoir. All totaled I wrote six essays. Here's two of 'em for your enjoyment. As a little preface, these may sound somewhat depressing, but there's really no other way to relate the events they describe (I am thinking especially of the second one).

-----The Autumn Leaves-----------------------------------------------
The little boy was happy. He smiled as leaves danced across the yard. His eyes sparkled with sunlight as he went about his day without a care in the world. With love he labored in his sandbox. With awe he gazed up at the clouds, marveling as they crossed before the sun, throwing elaborate shadows upon the ground below. The little boy lived in a world unspoiled. He lived in a world that was free.

On a cool autumn day, while a light breeze gently rocked the maple trees back and forth, as blankets of clouds rolled overhead, the sun sneaking through a hole every once and a while, the little boy sat in his garage playing with his trucks. The little boy loved his trucks, as most little boys do. He played with them for hours on end; he loved nothing more. There was only one rule when it came to playing in the garage: everything had to be put away before dad came home. Dad worked hard. The last thing he needed was to put toys away just so he could pull his car into the garage.

Every day, the little boy played with his trucks in the garage. Every day, he picked them up and put them away before dad got home. Every day, dad came home and the family sat down for dinner. But today was not like every other day. Today the little boy played with his trucks like he usually did. When it was time, the little boy put his trucks away and waited for dad’s car to pull into the garage. Dad never came.

Eventually, the little boy went inside and looked for his mom. She wasn’t in the kitchen. She wasn’t doing laundry. She wasn’t watching TV. Eventually, the little boy walked into his parents’ bedroom. Mom was on her bed. Mom was crying.

The little boy wasn’t sure what was happening. He knew mom cried; everybody cried. But why was mom crying now? Shouldn’t she be in the kitchen getting dinner ready for when dad came home? In fact, shouldn’t all three be in the kitchen right now eating dinner?

Timidly, the little boy approached his mom’s bed and crawled up onto it. The shades were pulled down and the little boy could barely see anything. He made his way closer to his mom and asked her what was wrong. Mom rolled over with eyes red from tears and told the little boy.

Dad was not coming home. The little boy knew it even before mom said it. Before his mom could say anything else, the little boy began to cry. Though his four year old mind could not fully understand every detail, knowing his dad was not coming home, knowing his dad would never come home, made tears well up inside the little boy. He was helpless to prevent it.

Later that day, the little boy stood alone in his backyard, gazing up at the mighty oak trees. Tears lined the rims of his blue eyes. An occasional sob still shook his tiny frame. Above him, the familiar oak trees shed their leaves. It was a sight he had seen several times before in his life, but never before had he looked up at those trees with envy. Unlike the little boy, they showed no signs of pain; they shed no tears. The little boy wished he could be so strong. Determined to shed his own autumn leaves without sadness, he wiped the tears from his eyes, forced himself to stop sobbing. He swore he’d never cry again.

Many years later, the little boy is no longer a little boy. He has become a young man. He has grown tall and strong and wise. He knows much the little boy did not. He still doesn’t cry. But as the young man lives his life, always looking forward, advancing, progressing, part of him knows that at his core, he is still that little boy gazing up at the oak trees, envying how easily they shed their autumn leaves. Though he’s lived more than a decade since the terrible day divorce first tore his life to pieces, the young man is still a little boy at heart.

For years, the young man has lived his life with one goal: to become everything the little boy was not. In some ways he has succeeded. He has not succumbed to his pain and grief. He has swept them beneath the rug and move on. Unlike the little boy he once was, the young man lives his life free from hurt.

And yet, despite young man’s best attempts to leave him behind, the little boy remains. When no one else is looking, when he is honest with himself, the young man looks in the mirror and he does not see a strong, resolute young man. He sees a broken little boy waiting for a father who isn’t coming home. Though the young man has lived life trying to leave the little boy behind, the little boy remains. The young man tries to tell himself he walks the path of life alone. In reality, he walks it hand-and-hand with the little boy. Together they live in a world that is spoiled. Together they wish they were free. Together they stand in defiance, shedding their autumn leaves.

-----I Fade Away---------------------------------------------------------
The wind blows gently through the trees. Leaves rolls across the asphalt. In my mind, they’re running from me—just like everyone else. Despair is my only companion, pain the only friend I know. As I take the first step out my door, I leave a piece of myself behind.

I meet my friend along the way. We walk and talk and laugh and smile, but we don’t know each other. It’s late November; the air is cold and cuts right through us. But that’s ok: we can barely feel it. As the wind tears through me, I don’t shiver; I’m far too numb. With each new step, I feel less and less.

The streets roll by beneath my feet. Each step taken brings me one step closer to my destination, one step further from myself. My body is walking to school but I’m still on my front porch, waiting for it to come back. The distance pulls us apart; I notice less and less. The world flies by; I don’t care. I live in a world that hates me. I don’t hesitate to return the favor.

I’ve walked to school every day this year; I’ll continue to do so for all the rest of them. My friend Rob walks with me; I’ve known him as long as I can remember. The world hates him too, but he’s used to it--he doesn’t even cry anymore. I’m not like Rob. I can’t just sit back and do nothing. I have a plan. I live in a world that brings me tears. I used to hope it’d drown in them. Now I just hope it burns.

It’s my last year of middle school; I can’t wait to leave. Every day I walk to school knowing I’m one day closer to the day I never have to see that building again. The thought carries me through my day. Every tick of the second-hand brings me that much closer to deliverance. I hope only to escape. I don’t care if I endure, if I fade. I just want it to stop.

We come to the only stoplight on the way to school and we have to wait. As cars race by, I wonder if anyone would care if I leapt in front of a passing semi. I wonder if I would even care. Could death really be much different from life? I’m already so numb. I doubt I’d feel anything when the semi hit. As several fly by, I wonder if that’s the escape I desire. I’m too much the coward to try.

The light changes and we make our way across Route 62. We’re now halfway to school. In fifteen minutes we’ll enter; six hours later we’ll leave. What happens in between? I have no idea. The moment I enter that building, I disengage. From the instant I step out of my house, I’m running away from everything I’m walking towards.

School comes into view and a mighty breeze tears through the morning air. It chills me to the core but I’m feeling it less and less. I see the people standing outside of school and I’m not numb anymore; I’m on fire. These are the people that tore me down. They broke me, brought me low. As I walk towards them, I remember their crimes against me, the hate they’ve shown towards me. A fire is lit within. I no longer want to run away; I want revenge.

Before I know it, I’m among them. I’m standing amongst the people I hate, the tormentors I loathe. I want to explode. I want all my hate, my pain, my rage to burst forth and destroy me. I want to end, to collapse upon myself and like a star, explode outward and catch them all in the blast. For a moment, I relish in the flames raging within me. My eyes see only blood.

But I can’t have what I want. Remembering my hate, I recall my pain. I want to ignite, to make them suffer as I do; but I’m too weak. Tears come to my eyes. I panic. I won’t surrender to this pain again. I can’t bear it. I have to make a choice. I do. I disengage; I run away. I empty my head of thoughts; I clear my mind. The fires of hate, the agony of hurt, everything disappears into the void that is my life. I follow.

The wind blows gently through the trees. Leaves roll across the asphalt. Like me, they’re running. As the morning bell rings and I join the masses, entering the school building, I feel nothing. Pain has produced hate. I deny them both: I bury them deep within; I refuse to feel. But for me, there is no catharsis: I’m trying to purge my pain but I’m purging my soul. I’m killing myself, one step at a time. By my own volition, I fade away. Left behind is nothing but a cold empty shell, warmed only by the smoldering embers of hate encased within an iron heart.

I’m numb; I don’t feel anything, I don’t know who I am. I no longer want a panacea; liberation is not my goal. I just want it all to end, because when it ends, so too shall I. And no one’s going to miss me.

Myself least of all.