Blue like Forget-me-nots

He sat up in bed with a start. “Good morning!” the neat print seemed to scream from the sign nailed to the wall directly opposite him. “Your name is George Winston Smith!” exclaimed the smaller font just below it. George clutched his curly hair, slightly coated with the cold sweat that accompanies the unfolding of a nightmare. He squinted to examine the plaque which had informed him of his name in such a cheerful manner. Before he could continue to read, George noticed there was an identical message pinned directly to the left, yet it read, “Good morning! Your name is Julia McClellan!”

George turned to his left, and noticed for the first time that there was a woman asleep in a cot very similar to his. She, Julia he assumed, was facing away from him. The platinum blonde braid tracing the length of her spine was gently shifting with the rise and fall of her breath. Beyond Julia lay what George gathered were at least ten other cots, arranged in a strikingly straight line, each with a corresponding plaque opposite. It reminded him of a sort of perverted slumber party. George reasoned that he must have been the first to wake up.

He attempted to rise to his feet carefully, but upon placing his heels on the floor, the joints in his ankle crackled and popped like cereal just after adding milk. Looking down at his hands, George reasoned that he might be in his early forties. There were no reflective surfaces in the room so he could not see the color of his hair, but when he grasped a lock of it between his thumb and forefinger it was full and strong, so he reconsidered his age. Perhaps he was in his late thirties.

He shuffled towards the plaque. In small print towards the bottom, it read “turn over for further instruction.” George complied and did so. On the back was a short paragraph, composed of sentences short and sharp. There were no conjunctions or commas, just the occasional exclamation point. It looked as if it had been written by a first or second grader, but its contents were morbid.

“You are 33 years old. You do not remember your past. That is intentional. You share memories with the others in this room. To remember is to feel. To feel is to hurt. Your ignorance is protection. Your memory will last until sundown. Embrace it!”

George retreated to the foot of his bed and pondered this news, silently mouthing the last phrase again and again until it was as familiar as the saliva on his tongue, sour with the taste of unrest. Embrace it! Embrace it! Embrace it...

He traced the words carefully in the palm of his hand, as if spelling was understanding. The exclamation point, he thought, was particularly insulting, almost a rude command. He wasn’t stunned exactly. How could he be? Instead, he was curious. How many times, George wondered, had he read this plaque? Had it been a few days? A few months? A year? How many times had he sat in this exact spot, mulling over this exact query? And, most of all, he questioned what event could have taken place that would’ve yielded this reality. How gruesome, how horrible, how scarring could an event have to be so that it would be preferable to live in this memory loop? George wondered if he agreed with the sign. He wondered if perhaps he should have had a choice. Perhaps he had, and simply didn’t remember.

When George emerged from his reverie, he saw that Julia was standing in front of her plaque. She had turned it over and was reading the brief blurb he had just finished. Her long fingernails tapped the rounded hickory frame, producing a pleasant “click, click, click.” The noise sounded familiar, but no matter how his mind labored to seize the elusive memory, it always escaped him, like soft sand rushing between his fingers. Maybe it reminded him of a pencil tapping on a student’s desk. Perhaps it was the sound of his mother gently rapping on his bedroom door, calling him down for Sunday breakfast. The sensation of almost having the memory in his grasp, and then losing it bothered George immensely. It evoked a surge of steaming frustration that prompted him to clench his knuckles until the blood escaped them and they paled to chalk.

“Why are you doing that?” Julia asked just loud enough for George to hear, but not quite loud enough to wake their roommates.

George shrugged.

Her voice was gravelly, yet not disagreeable. He wondered if he had heard her voice before. He wondered how they knew each other in a past life. Were they husband and wife? Brother and sister? Cousins? Friends? The way the pallid light in the room slightly reflected off of her long braid pricked a feeling of familiarity within him. It irked George that he couldn’t quite grasp it. What do people talk about when meeting for the first time? George assumed they had met many times before. He felt like a child. He felt small and afraid. What would a child ask?

“Hey, what’s your favorite color?” She seemed mildly amused.

“I’m not sure…” she trailed off. Julia half-heartedly surveyed the room. Her eyes settled on the scratchy cover to her cot. It was blue. Blue like the fire ringing the bottom of a flame, blue like forget-me-nots.

George asked her for the small copper clip which labored to hold Julia’s braid in place. She handed it to him without question. He cradled the small clip in the palm of his hand like a child does a moth with a broken wing. Julia’s long braid quickly unraveled, leaving her looking bored and disheveled.

George padded over to the plaque that boasted his name. He firmly clutched the hickory frame and explained to Julia his intention. He would carve the name of her favorite color into the frame. He would remember her favorite color tomorrow. Maybe they could remember other things, he reasoned. It didn’t have to be like this.

George gripped the edges of the frame and flipped it over so the side originally against the wall was facing him. Startled, he stepped backwards, his mouth agape.

Neatly etched into the frame, in what could only be his own handwriting, was the simple word “blue.”

Those who say

The mortal error of man

Is man

Yet the moment before the end

We all hold one ache

Aspirin free

The dread of those, who

Travel there willingly

Or not

Stir the notions

Of the universal ash

Before the frost

Stand in line

And cry with the others

Whisper to me

Sitting in that black Buick car with my mother, I digested a summary of what we would be doing in the next hour. We were to number 1: pick up diapers, and number 2: deliver them to a woman. As simple as these directions seemed, the emotions I would come across and the things I would examine in the next 60 minutes were much more complex. Heartbreak, an emotion I would encounter. Poverty, something I would perceive.

When my mother finally turned into the parking lot of a two-story brown building, we waited for a bit. In this time of waiting, I couldn’t help but feel a bit nervous. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to come with my mother on this trip. Of course I did. I knew this would be a valuable experience for me. I was just unsure of what to expect. What would the woman’s apartment building look like? What would the woman’s reaction be when we handed her the diapers? How old would this woman be? After these thoughts raced in my head for a bit, they were paused when a tall woman with a blue disposable mask came over to our car. She placed a bag of diapers into our trunk and handed my mother a piece of paper with an address. I felt the car shake as it started again.

After what seemed to be a six minute drive, we had arrived. I glanced at the clock at the front of the car. “3:00 pm” it read. As I pushed open the car door, I felt the light breeze of the May air hit my face. My mother reached for the plastic bag of diapers from the trunk, and we headed towards the front of the building.

Inside, I noticed a little black elevator that appeared to fit about 4 people. My observation was proven correct when my mother and I stepped inside it and a woman and a boy joined us. The boy was a teenager who seemed to be around my age, and the woman looked as though she were about 19 years old. My mother scanned the crumbled piece of paper with the woman’s address. As she clicked the small circular button that would take us to floor 8, I noticed the noise the elevator made. It was an eerie sound, one that implied how old the elevator was. The elevator was old, but it functioned perfectly well.

The apartment door was painted a dark sage color and “217” was written in gold lettering above the door handle. It made me sad to see some of the paint peeling because the color was so pretty to stare at. Just as my mother was about to knock on the door, the woman from the elevator appeared behind us. We realized that she was the woman who needed the diapers. She was the mother with a toddler. As we handed the plastic bag to her with a gentle smile across our faces, she let out a soft “Thank you.” As taciturn as the woman was, the simple silence indicated how appreciative she was.

On the car ride home, I remembered my initial reaction to seeing that woman in the elevator. The woman looked as though she were about 19 years old. I cannot imagine at that young of an age not only having to take care of yourself but also having the life of a child in your hands. On top of that, being poor. I felt terrible. In fact, I felt devastated. Devastated at the fact that most days for that young mom are probably stressful days. Days where she has to choose between working or taking care of her child. Days where she has to sacrifice her hunger so that her child can eat.

It struck me as I sat in the back of our car how we often overlook the value of the everyday items we are accustomed to. A hairbrush, toilet paper, a towel, and toothpaste. All things I have access to and use on a day to day basis. These may just seem like average toiletries, but there are people who dream of having these simple things. Diapers. Simply made of cloth. Essential for babies and toddlers. Roughly around 20 cents. I started to wonder, how much would that money add up over time? If your child was to wear 8 to 12 diapers per day, that’s about 2 to 3 dollars spent. Now multiply that by 365 days. About $900 per year or even more. When we take the time to realize how costly simple things like diapers are, we come to terms with how much value they hold. While I no longer wear diapers, I did at some point in my life. It got me thinking about how my parents had to spend thousands of dollars on diapers for me. They had the money to do this, but what about that 19-year-old mother? How can she afford diapers for her child?

After I had helped that woman, I felt better knowing that I had done something that benefitted two people. The woman and her child. I knew that from now on I had to be more aware of the things I say at times. Do I really need this or do I just want it?

Growing up in a wealthy town where I am very fortunate, it is sometimes hard to keep in mind the other situations that people live in. When we take the time to see people’s lives through a different lens and a different perspective, we realize how many people are struggling. While I cannot help all of those struggling people, I can take part in simple acts like delivering diapers. Simple acts that allow people to feel a sense of relief for a few days, just like that 19-year-old mom must have felt. Although that experience took place 6 months ago, I still remember it vividly. I think about the soft smile that crept on that woman’s face and the weight that must have been lifted from her shoulders for some time. I want to allow other people to feel that weight lifted from them for some time. And I know that I will continue to do that throughout my life.