september

September

I never liked the color green much. It was too natural, too soft for my explosive neon tastes. But seeing the green hue cast by the mulberry tree outside my window was calming. Late afternoon sun filtered through the falling leaves, the mellow sloshes of the early September breath brushing through the branches, oddly reminding me of wind chimes. It was a beautiful day. A lazy day, a day where one did not feel the need to do much of anything. If it wasn’t for the overwhelming whirring of the vacuum, that is.

I didn’t enjoy cleaning; that much could be said. And much to my parents’ dismay, I was comfortable living in a mess. My drawers were open, overflowing with old clothes I never wear and other disorderly paraphernalia I pile on top on a whim during tight mornings. A pile of dirty shoes rests on a stacked tower of unfinished paintings and notebooks, leaning against the neglected skateboard that occasionally shifted around under my closet. Posters of every size hung next to framed photos, dangling with vinyls, CDs, sketches, drawings, lights. My brother always said it was like a college student with debts and a major in art had thrown up on my wall. Everything was colored a dazzling array of greens and oranges. The hazy shadows of the leaves danced across my pillows and sheets, leaking into the small crack in between the foot of my bed and the hard plywood of my drawers.

I sighed, turning off the blaring vacuum and lowering my headphones. My shoulders popped as I stretched my arms upwards, the feathers of my dream catcher brushing against the pads of my thumbs. Pushing my skateboard further into the space under my wardrobe that I call the abyss, I finally addressed the very thing I dreaded the most: the piling mess of papers, old shoe boxes and winter clothes I had yet to unpack, all jammed in that small crack.

I made a face as I stood up and lifted a clean pile of laundry off the top. Folding the shoe boxes, I haphazardly tossed them into the recycling. Next, I cleared most of the old homework that had survived the year. But I didn’t need them; I had finished my last year of middle school-in quarantine, nonetheless. I had a new school to look forward to, so I said goodbye to all my bent binders and unfinished math worksheets with a sardonic twist of my lips.

I hummed a tune under my breath as I pulled out one of the final boxes I needed to clean through. Recognition immediately flared in my bones-my memory box.

Christ, I forgot I had this. I twisted the box in my hands, my fingers brushing over the metal clasp that kept it tightly closed. A couple years earlier, I had decided to keep little pieces of my life safe in a memory box-such as valentine cards, pictures and gifts from all my middle school friends. It’s been nearly a year since I left all those friends behind, with the pandemic only complicating things even more. I’ve changed and so have they-and my art style even more, I thought dryly as I examined the crudely-drawn ocean painted across all six sides of the box.

I popped it open without much forethought and sucked in a sharp breath. The first picture that greeted me was a polaroid of all my closest friends at the time, all squeezed into the frame. Green Eyes’ perfect rows of pearly white teeth, Beauty Mark’s long dark hair angelically twisted in a bun, Hoop Earrings’ nose scrunched up in amused disgust as she stared at Purple Headband’s grimace. And I was in the very corner, almost pushed out of frame, grinning at the camera.

I could almost taste the memory on the tip of my tongue. I could almost smell the still air of the hotel room in Washington D.C., where we were all cooped up together for a couple nights as a part of a school trip. I remembered eating candy with Beauty Mark and chatting with Purple Headband, helping Green Eyes pick out a shirt, or Hoop Earrings laughing at me when I couldn’t figure out how the shower door worked.

Whether I liked it or not, those memories struck a place too close to my heart. All the sleepless nights we spent overlooking the traffic outside our balcony, all the times we snuck out just to bring back sodas from the vending machines. All the bad breakfast we shared, filled with dry cereal and undercooked oatmeal, all the gnarly jokes we made on the bus as miles whizzed by us, taking us from one memorable place to another. I sucked in a sharp breath.

But I could remember all the bad memories just as clearly. The tight whispers they shared amongst themselves when I had gone to the bathroom, the knowing glances shared when I excitedly talked, the way they started making fun of my clothes and my body. And I could never be them-I never could be like them, perfectly pinned up and flawless from every angle.

The memory faded away like humid fog. I snatched the picture and threw it over my shoulder, groaning when I heard the polaroid snap against my window and flutter down, skidding across the floor. Why did I open this again?

But I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t help but crave the rush of memories as I stared down at these artifacts, at the very reason why I had decided to make this box in the early months of 6th grade.

I scrunched up my nose, my curiosity getting the best of me again. I sorted through all the papers and objects. A smooth rock, given by my cousin years ago. End of the year cards given by a few selected teachers. Some random jewelry I had misplaced. I finally arrived at another picture. This one with all five of us again, but we were standing in this very room, with Green Eyes kneeling on the bed as Beauty Mark sitting on my desk.

My 13th birthday, where I had invited them to my home. We had spent a night outside, sleeping under the stars, lighting scented candles and pouring our hearts out. When I had finally felt I was part of them, one of them, as we exchanged the darkest of secrets, they left to eat at a restaurant the next morning without telling me. We had planned to make lunch together, but they had somehow decided against it without my knowledge, and when I had rushed to their table after begging my mother to drive me to the spot, they had already finished their dessert. The faint memory of strawberry shortcakes and embarrassment crawled up my throat.

They never thought of me, never had me in mind. That’s when I realized; despite all the secrets and memories I wish I banish away, I was never their friend.

After we said goodbye, I wondered why I had deserved that.

And the answer was, I did not. So the very next day, I didn’t call them friends either.

What stung the most was the fact that I believed that my friends-these people-would always be by my side. I always thought we would continue our antics throughout school and college, throughout marriage and children, throughout canes and prescriptions. In whatever foolish fantasies I had filled my head with, they were always there. And now, after fighting over text, after finally standing up to them, they’re gone. A rope cut short.

Shame and pain and anger welled up in my chest like an overinflated balloon. Feelings I was well-versed in, but they didn’t feel any more faint than the day after I let them go. Guilt traced my cheek as a tear ran down my chin. Stupid. This is stupid.

I let out a shaky breath, trying to sort the jumbled thoughts berating my head a hundred miles a minute. I slipped the picture back into the box, took out a couple meaningful letters and opened the waste bin in my room, throwing away the memory box before I could stop and think.

I slumped onto the floor, my chirpy enthusiasm to deep-clean my room evaporating along with the content lethargy. They had ruined a moment for me, again. Even when we haven’t talked in ages, they somehow still taunted me with their sharp laughs and sharper smiles.

I laid my head against the skateboard, rocking it back and forth. They would probably make fun of me for how ridiculous I look right now. But a part of me didn’t believe it for a second.

As much as I could recall the good and the bad, I could recall the silence. The way we would lay on each other’s stomachs, on our phones, completely at ease with the quiet. The small gestures they offered me, like a small pat on the back or a small peck on the cheek, like they knew where I was without words. The simplicity, the easiness of it all-it called to me.

Perhaps we were really friends. Perhaps it just turned sour, or overripe, overdone. Maybe we were friends, but friendship can’t last until the end of time. I can’t expect it to, then blame myself and everyone else.

I can’t expect things to last forever. Hell, I can’t even do that.

They are all somewhere else now, in different schools leading different lives. For some strange reason, that made me happy. Though they had caused many sleepless nights and unshed tears, they had made me laugh too.

They were part of my memory box. Part of my life, whether I liked it or not. And we might have ended on bad terms, but maybe it’s better for me to remember all the good things instead. I won’t let my anger turn into hatred, I vowed. I’m free. I should be happy.

Afternoon quickly bled into evening, the red sky stretching into the familiar shade of twilight. Sun burned through the cracks of the fence, lighting up the leaves of the mulberry tree to an iridescent green.

I stood up, shifting the skateboard back under the closet. Setting the polaroid onto my windowsill, I continued to stare out the window, watching the shadows grow and the reflective nature of the polaroid dim.

September was ending soon.

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