Thursday – The Reunion
Mar. 10th, 2011 12:42 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermore.
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I don’t drive by the Thin Place so much anymore, where Death appears as a Carney operating the giant Ferris Wheel of life and death. My commute now takes me west instead of south, where the Thin Place lies in a divided place between the northbound and southbound lanes of a minor state highway going into the northwest corner of Houston. Instead of passing by Death every day on my way to and from work, I pass by subdivisions and shopping centers and schools and lots and lots of trees. But I made a point of dropping by yesterday; there was someone I hoped to see.
I did not recognize the man who stepped off the Ferris Wheel, because he was someone who never really existed in this world. His narrow, handsome face with high cheekbones was nonetheless familiar to me. He looked about 35, a tall, lean man in his prime. He carried himself with a quiet dignity and definite grace. His fine, light brown hair was neatly trimmed and he was clean shaven. I had always seen him in the goatee that his mother has painstakingly and lovingly trimmed and shaved onto his face after his "accident," but it looked like now that he was in charge of his own shaving he wanted to try something new. Eighteen years is a long time to stick to one look.
Then I saw the woman who stepped toward him from the gate next to the Carney and walked slowly toward him, like she thought she might be in a dream. She also looked about 35, and she was lovely. Her straight blond hair fell across her shoulders. She had the same narrow face and the prominent cheekbones as the man, as wells as large eyes that burned with intensity and intelligence. She wore a dress that looked new; I suspected it was the one her husband told me about that he has purchased and then never wore because her slightly crooked back (which you did not notice with your naked eye) made it hang wrong on her. After she died, he told me he dreamed he saw her wearing that dress, and that it fit her perfectly and that she looked beautiful in it. If this was the same dress, she did. It wasn't an extravagant dress, but it's simple design draped over her slim body like it had been sewn for her and her alone.
When she stood in front of the tall man, he smiled down and her and she let out a cry as she threw out her arms and embraced him like they had not seen each other in years. Like he was a soldier finally home from a long and perilous mission that she thought he might not return from. He wrapped his arms around her and lifted her up off of the ground in a bear hug.
Looking the same age they way they did, an outside observer might take them to be brother and sister, but the reason they looked the ages they did had less to do with the chronology of their lives and more to do with the poetry of them. Leslie was 35 when her son had his brain aneurism and her world imploded. It was the last year of her life that she felt confident and beautiful; the last year of her life that was, actually, her own. Her son, Cameron was 17 when his brain aneurism left him profoundly brain damaged. He died on Tuesday morning at the age of 35, but for some mystery of nature the brain aneurism had frozen him in time: his skin was still as smooth and as soft as a boy’s. He never looked 35 years old in this world.
Here, stepping off the ride of life, he finally did. He was handsome, with laugh lines in the corners of his eyes that creased when he smiled. He bend down to whisper something into the ear of his mother (who looked like his sister) and whatever it was it made her laugh in that wonderful full-throated laugh that I remember her having. His sense of humor, pre-brain damage, had been dry and sarcastic, though not mean. He was probably teasing her about something, some private joke between a young man and his ex-hippie mom.
I was standing a few feet in front of the gate to the ride, but they could not see me. The Carney opened the worn wooden gate for them and tipped his gimmie cap at them as they walked through it, her arm around his waist and his arm resting on her shoulders. As they walked across the threshold of the gateway where the Thin Place ended, they disappeared from my view. If they had not, they would have walked right through me.
They did not see me, but it was wonderful for me to see them.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
.
.
I don’t drive by the Thin Place so much anymore, where Death appears as a Carney operating the giant Ferris Wheel of life and death. My commute now takes me west instead of south, where the Thin Place lies in a divided place between the northbound and southbound lanes of a minor state highway going into the northwest corner of Houston. Instead of passing by Death every day on my way to and from work, I pass by subdivisions and shopping centers and schools and lots and lots of trees. But I made a point of dropping by yesterday; there was someone I hoped to see.
I did not recognize the man who stepped off the Ferris Wheel, because he was someone who never really existed in this world. His narrow, handsome face with high cheekbones was nonetheless familiar to me. He looked about 35, a tall, lean man in his prime. He carried himself with a quiet dignity and definite grace. His fine, light brown hair was neatly trimmed and he was clean shaven. I had always seen him in the goatee that his mother has painstakingly and lovingly trimmed and shaved onto his face after his "accident," but it looked like now that he was in charge of his own shaving he wanted to try something new. Eighteen years is a long time to stick to one look.
Then I saw the woman who stepped toward him from the gate next to the Carney and walked slowly toward him, like she thought she might be in a dream. She also looked about 35, and she was lovely. Her straight blond hair fell across her shoulders. She had the same narrow face and the prominent cheekbones as the man, as wells as large eyes that burned with intensity and intelligence. She wore a dress that looked new; I suspected it was the one her husband told me about that he has purchased and then never wore because her slightly crooked back (which you did not notice with your naked eye) made it hang wrong on her. After she died, he told me he dreamed he saw her wearing that dress, and that it fit her perfectly and that she looked beautiful in it. If this was the same dress, she did. It wasn't an extravagant dress, but it's simple design draped over her slim body like it had been sewn for her and her alone.
When she stood in front of the tall man, he smiled down and her and she let out a cry as she threw out her arms and embraced him like they had not seen each other in years. Like he was a soldier finally home from a long and perilous mission that she thought he might not return from. He wrapped his arms around her and lifted her up off of the ground in a bear hug.
Looking the same age they way they did, an outside observer might take them to be brother and sister, but the reason they looked the ages they did had less to do with the chronology of their lives and more to do with the poetry of them. Leslie was 35 when her son had his brain aneurism and her world imploded. It was the last year of her life that she felt confident and beautiful; the last year of her life that was, actually, her own. Her son, Cameron was 17 when his brain aneurism left him profoundly brain damaged. He died on Tuesday morning at the age of 35, but for some mystery of nature the brain aneurism had frozen him in time: his skin was still as smooth and as soft as a boy’s. He never looked 35 years old in this world.
Here, stepping off the ride of life, he finally did. He was handsome, with laugh lines in the corners of his eyes that creased when he smiled. He bend down to whisper something into the ear of his mother (who looked like his sister) and whatever it was it made her laugh in that wonderful full-throated laugh that I remember her having. His sense of humor, pre-brain damage, had been dry and sarcastic, though not mean. He was probably teasing her about something, some private joke between a young man and his ex-hippie mom.
I was standing a few feet in front of the gate to the ride, but they could not see me. The Carney opened the worn wooden gate for them and tipped his gimmie cap at them as they walked through it, her arm around his waist and his arm resting on her shoulders. As they walked across the threshold of the gateway where the Thin Place ended, they disappeared from my view. If they had not, they would have walked right through me.
They did not see me, but it was wonderful for me to see them.
