Remembering Sunday (short story HE10)

Michaela was the smile on my face when it was storming outside. Every time the skies turned gray, as if it were about to thunder, she would call me to her house to listen quietly. In my older age, when I hear a storm, I hear the calm ringing of her voice as I remember my childhood and the downhill years that followed, but she always seemed to keep me happy enough.

She sat me down for breakfast: two eggs and a cup of coffee. Her home emitted a very classic mood. The curtains were a vintage green checker plaid, and the dining table was made from pine wood with a satin tablecloth with lace trimmings. No matter how cozy and warm her shelter may be, what really gives the place its glow was Michaela’s warm, peaceful heart. Her smile lit up the room. Unfortunately, Sunday morning was the last time I would see it.

The death of her parents had visibly aged the pitiful creature, although was only in her mid-twenties. Slowly, the youthful smile that enticed me to befriend Michaela dissolved, evaporated, and faded away, just as I did from her life. It was time for the move. My parents had packed up all of our belongings. I hadn’t played with Michaela for almost a month now, but my feelings drove me to knock on the door. Her grandmother opened the door, insisting that she wasn’t home. A droopy look masqueraded my face. My footsteps heavy, I sulked to mom’s truck and got inside. I didn’t say a word for the rest of the long car ride to Minnesota. I acknowledge this departure had branded incessant grief to Michaela like it had to me. Much too hard it is to bite the prospect that her own invisibility and silent weeping had met her with a terrible fate.

I still can’t forget her. No matter how hard I try to move on, her bright, warm face invasively tugs at my mind and heartstrings. She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever laid eyes on. The piercing blue-green lake in her eyes made a rainbow appear less lively in juxtaposition. I had to see my friend again, even if my life depended on it. Every time she crossed my mind, I’d feel the sweet but sour essence of mixed feelings and corrupted interpretations of past mementos. Tonight, there is nothing more to do, or to think about, in isolation, so I do the only thing I can. I rest myself, bringing my body onto a drifting cloud where there is no past, present or future; nothing, calmness, but a fantasy show that unrolls itself before my mind’s eye.

In my dream, we were there again. We were back in the warm house where we used to play together. Nostalgic scenery crowded her bedchamber. The scents of pine and oak and other rustic odors alerted my nostrils. It all seemed to short and simple to be a dream. I am not a lucid dreamer, but I’ve never had that firm grasp on reality where I could draw a line between what’s rational and what’s not.

I returned to the little house on Park Street where I spent my childhood. I was going to find Michaela Hill. I rapidly knocked on the door, my fist slamming, demanding a response, or at least an echo. The place seemed a bit beat-up. The air of somber flavors filled my nostrils. Something had happened here. An old woman with a resemblance to Michaela answered the door, and told me that she had moved away. I nodded and thanked her as she sat down in a rocking chair in front of a television that, oddly enough, was not powered on. Soon after, it began to drizzle, but I did not quicken my pace even as the precipitation grew heavy. I let it wash the fear from my face, but it did not wash the memories out of my hair or out of my mind. My desperate endeavor to find my true love was a treacherous journey. I haven’t been sober for three days. The breeze, more like forceful gusts of wind trying to steer me away from my mission, was of a very frigid wind chill and nipped at my unprotected digits. Still, I pressed on. I continued walking until I became lost, unable to retrace my steps back home.

I’d lost track of the days that I was looking for this girl. I carry a picture of her with me and nothing else. From time to time, I will ask passersby if they have seen my Michaela. Some say yes, some say no. By now, I would consider myself homeless. Winter has begun, so I found myself two gloves from separate pairs lying on the streets of a small market town that I frequent.

I ventured into nowhere again, foolishly, without food. I again collapse under tears, and soon drowned in salt all hope of the mission. However, I saw my Michaela at last. I was dizzy and weak, but I saw her, nice and young and beautiful again. I had grown old, weary, and stressed, but she was as beautiful as always. She was dressed warm and comfortable. The chills make me weary, but if any malefactor were to come of it, I would be safe from all harm. The snow had become a friendly fire to me, and I learned to bask in its blanketing just like the planet. I managed to hold one mitten-encased hand, vaporizing as if it was a translucent figure, but then I slipped into the snow. I fell asleep. Yet I am nothing more than alive, than I am that emptiness is one of the instinctive responses of the unconscious mind – one of the vile inevitable consequences, or feints, which give style to the deployment of failure.