The Reunion

Life sometimes comes back to me in sharp flashes of memory. Like the montage of images in a disjointed dream, stitched together in a colorful crazy-quilt, the flashes melt down to something simple, to something meaningful. I realized only later that the first flash was not a memory at all, but an observation that I had been actively making as I stood before you. For at least five minutes, I stood staring at you laying there on the ground. Yet I saw you only for an instant; you were but one of the many momentary flashes. Seeing, recognizing, remembering, and trying to piece you together as you lay dismembered on the marble floor had over-stimulated my mind and, as if to shield my body from the pain that now burdens me, it edited the duration of my mind’s motion picture down to one simple cut.

I don’t know how I recognized you. You barely resembled yourself, or at least you barely matched the memory of yourself which I had neatly tucked away for years. The next flash was the Angela my mind had retrieved from the mental file labeled ‘Do Not Touch’ and, as if conjured magically, you reappear more vividly than ever. You were a healthy 109 pounds (okay, maybe not healthy, but compared to now?), with hair like ebony silk that ran along your slender frame down to your waist, and chocolate eyes that read like books. It was through your eyes, which told so much as you spoke (and you rarely stopped), that I, before even you, knew something was wrong.

As telling as your eyes were, in them was never the rhyme nor the reason for the things that you did- only how you felt when you did them. When we first met, I admired you despite being unable to understand you. Perhaps I admired you because I could not understand you. We were schoolmates; I was lonely and had no friends; you had many friends and you too were lonely. I still do not understand why you, popular and beautiful, chose me. But you did, and we became confidantes.

Despite your beautiful exterior, you were, for lack of better words, damaged goods. Abused by your father for years, and forced to store your “sick, perverted story” in the family closet by your envious and pain-stricken mother, your life was not the Brady Bunch episode that our teachers, coaches, and school principal conceived it to be. Maybe that’s why no one noticed when your body began to waste away. Why should they? They hadn’t noticed when it had begun to round about your belly.

I think it was after your abortion that I tried to reach out to you. And maybe it was too soon, because you very quickly pushed me away. I knew that you were depressed. I knew from your eyes. Why shouldn’t you be? You turned my help away- you turned me down for newer friends, more dangerous ones, with names like ecstasy and cocaine, “crystal” and “bliss.” You stopped eating. We used to get icecream after softball games every Friday afternoon. But you stopped playing softball. And you didn’t like icecream anymore. And then we graduated. Naturally, we lost touch.

Six years later, and the images that flash from years ago are more vivid than the one that my brain processed ten minutes ago. I know I am a little tipsy. I found you while I was out with friends. We are having drinks to celebrate the success of a peer’s final thesis. I found you in the Lucky Star Nightclub. You were lying on the bathroom floor. You were no longer tipsy, but barely responding. I know it is you because you still have your long ebony hair. It’s not silky anymore, but tangled like the frayed ends of your cutoff jean skirt. Your legs are like sticks, and you’ve clearly lost far too much weight. On your arms are the story of your last six years, of your continued drug use, and of your spiral away from real life. I wonder if when you think (or thought) about life, if you see in real life, or like me, you see mostly in images.

Because I was once your confidante, I didn’t want them to see you like this. Your yellow blouse had been unbuttoned, exposing your barely-there breasts and concave chest. Your legs are tucked up beside you as if you had tried to curl into a fetal position, but lost your will half-way. Your arms are spread open and up in each direction, and though you once told me that God was a lie, I think that you look like Jesus with your arms and scrapes and wounds. On my cell phone, I dial 911. I know that technically I am not supposed to touch you, but I button up your blouse, and I fold your arms across your chest. And as I gently stroke your ebony hair, I do not look at the person dying before me, but I shut my moistened eyes and see you as you appear in the stream of ancient flashes.