The Crest of Nowhere

As the rocky formations crushed me, my eyes closed. The absence of my body and mind caused all my feelings to melt like butter. I was in a wistful bliss, my worries vanished, my stress obsolete. The only consciousness I possessed was that of nothingness.  

As I felt signs of wind and snow grow farther away, my body was tugged downwards like the victim of a never-ending slide. Small simulations of sound and light played out in my mind as my soul searched faster and faster, looking for an answer. The lights flashing in my brain became vibrant and detailed; sounds spilled out, echoing in my mind. In utter seconds, it became clear: moments in my life were flashing before me once again. They were long-lost moments, hard to recall, barely mine anymore. The sensation was closer to watching a short film than to watching my life.

I saw my grandfather. He was sitting on the couch; I was beside him. We both stared at the television, enticed by the action unfolding before us. We were most likely watching football: the colors of my grandfather's jersey and the beer in his left hand were dead giveaways. For a split second, we looked at each other, both smiling. We were encapsulated in the moment, tracing each other's features with our eyes, making note of every line and curve in hopes to remember forever. We both knew this moment couldn't be replaced, even if it was just football. We were together, and that was all we cared about.

The next memory was of a bee, fluttering its wings, buzzing so loud that the surroundings became fuzzy and jumbled. The bee traversed the playground, delighting some children and inducing fear in others. I saw myself with big chunky glasses and Macy sneakers. As I scrambled down the slide, my heroic demeanor faltered: the bee had punctured my sunburnt skin. Without thinking I ran to my father, I always knew he'd have the answer. He swaddled me in his arms and kissed my wound. Our relationship is  no longer like that; he’s changed and so have I. The answers aren't always at the tip of his tongue anymore. But that's human nature, just like the unmoving bee dying in the soil.

As I searched once more, I saw a rocking chair in the dead center of a room fit for a newborn. There were  lacy accents on the curtains, and blues and pinks splattered the room. A little stuffed lamb sat upon the rocking chair, his fluffy white coat contrasted with his little pink nose and beady black eyes that brought him to life. He sat there waiting for someone to give him a purpose.

The moon was out; and it had been quiet for a while. Little giggles and snippets of speech could be heard, accompanied by footsteps. Pleasant murmuring became distinguishable as the door opened. It was me, with my little rectangular glasses, and tousled hair accompanied by my mother. I tugged my mother’s hand, pulling her into the room. My mother was younger then; her vibrant blonde hair and rosy lips stood out against her pale skin. We were both joyous in the dark night. I ran to the rocking chair, urging my mom to lift me up so I could see my lamb. My mother giggled at my attempts to climb, and soon picked me up, placing me on her lap. I grabbed lamby and smothered it with love. Seconds later, my mother had a book and started reading. Her voice was sweet, calming, and filled with hope. As my mother read, I couldn’t keep my eyes off face, her facial expressions drawing me in. She was my everything. I knew it when I was a child but as I relived this moment, I knew it was true. As the story hit its end, my eyes closed, and my face settled into the lamb. My mother looked down and read the final words, adding “I love you”. I know if I had been awake, even by the sliver of an eye, I wouldn’t have hesitated to say I love you back.

As I kept exploring the moments scattered in my mind, I started to realize how much had changed. I had been the happiest kid, in awe of my parents and believing every word they said. They were my idols; they were my everything. As I kept moving, my spirits plummeted, not because of  how life has changed, or for the sadness of death, but for the want to live as my parents had. They had no fear, no stress, no aches, and no bruises living in their skin. They were alive. They took risks and ran with life in their hands. I wanted to be truly happy, just as they were. Now, looking back, I knew my true mistake: not choosing my own happiness.