I Miss Something (It Isn't You)

Grade 11 Literary Arts - Chapbooks

MARIE: Like… history. Or the happy memories. Stories for people who weren't there. That’s all fine, but like, why constantly bring up the sad stuff? JANE: Well I don’t think people can just shut it off. I’m sure they would if they could.&nbsp; MARIE: I shut it off. JANE: No, you’re just in denial.&nbsp; MARIE: Maybe. But denial, repression, “shutting it off”, aren’t they all basically the same?&nbsp; JANE: (laughs) Maybe. But I like the past.&nbsp; MARIE: To each their own.&nbsp; (pause, they both watch the window) MARIE: Jane? JANE: Yes? MARIE: Don’t remember me when I die.&nbsp; JANE: (smiles) I don’t make promises I can’t keep. (MARIE smiles back. They return to watching the window)

“Remember not the former things, nor consider the things of old.” (Forgiveness) 

The two sat in the middle of the pew, silent. Red carpet covered the floor, the fabric pushed down far into the wood after years of faith. The pews were a dark brown, lining the aisle and leading to the back of the room to emphasize the chancel. Candles surrounded the golden altar, each one melted in various states of decline. In the center, the front table with the linen cloth draped over it, depicting the crucifixion. It's tassels were shimmering, as if to show the good of the tragedy sewn in with careful hands.&nbsp; The large stained glass window, however, was what was meant to catch the eye. “Beata Virgo Maria” was painted on the scroll along the top; Blessed Virgin Mary. Mary’s baby was held close to her heart, yellow light emanating off of the two of them. The rest of the window was shades of blue and red, meant to complement the other four windows in the room. The walls had been painted a dull white, making them easy to ignore, one’s eyes instinctively moving to the more intricate designs. Every window was outlined in gold, the bottom of each frame holding a copy of the Holy Bible. Each detail screamed for attention; attention it did not receive, from either of the two present.&nbsp; The first window depicted a field, crowds of people surrounding a woman and Jesus. The adulterer kneeled below him, the yellow light once again surrounding the picture. Jesus held her shoulder, and she smiled. “Go now, and leave your life of sin.”&nbsp;

(MARIE sits in front of a window. JANE enters with a vase of flowers, placing them on the table next to MARIE, who does not turn from the window) MARIE: Do you ever wonder about death? JANE: God, not this again.&nbsp; MARIE: Well, do you? (JANE sighs, and sits in the empty seat next to MARIE who finally turns to look at her.) JANE: Of course I do, everyone does.&nbsp; MARIE: That’s a bold statement.&nbsp; JANE: It’s true, isn’t it? MARIE: Yes. Doesn’t mean it’s not bold. (pause) What do you think then? JANE: What? MARIE: When you think about death, what part do you think about?&nbsp; JANE: Look, Marie, I don’t think this is something you should be talking about.&nbsp; MARIE: Why not? Because I’m dying? JANE: Don’t— (pauses, composing herself) Don’t say that.&nbsp; MARIE: Jane, you’re a smart woman, don’t act like I’m not dying.&nbsp; JANE: I know you’re sick, but you don’t need to talk about it like that.

MARIE: Like what? Jane, I’m only being realistic with you. They’ve stopped my treatment, and rightfully so if you ask me. Just be honest, what part do you think about? JANE: I don’t know, just… the usual stuff.&nbsp; MARIE: Such as? JANE: Gosh, I don’t know— the afterlife, I guess?&nbsp; MARIE: Hmm. Do you believe in it? JANE: Do you? MARIE: I asked first.&nbsp; JANE: Fine, um… yeah. I guess I do.&nbsp; MARIE: So what do you think it is? JANE: (pauses, thinking) Like a void. Just a white void of nothingness.&nbsp; MARIE: Oh. (beat) Is it just you?&nbsp; JANE: What? MARIE: In your void. Do you meet other dead people, or is it just you? JANE: There’s other people there. But it’s (beat) it’s not like your family. It’s so big that you can’t really find anyone. Like you’ll find a few people every once and a while, but they’re all looking for their families, and so you’re all sort of helping each other walk around and find your friends, talking about your lives and all that to pass the time.&nbsp; MARIE: Well, do you ever find them? Your family?&nbsp; JANE: I suppose, yeah. You could find them at any time, because they’re in the void with you. But it’s just incredibly low odds that within the billions of dead people you’ll find your family right away. So you meet other people, and you learn about who they are and what they did on earth, and you just… walk. Talk.&nbsp;

When Julie smokes, she’s never happy. It’s an escape, a response. When the night gets dark, and Uncle Alan leaves for bed, you might catch her sneaking out to the porch. Sitting in the living room, you’ll see the smoke rising up through the window; this is your first sign of danger. Something is clearly wrong. Don’t ask what it is, or that something will become you. On a night like tonight, it’s probably Dale. Actually, scratch that, it’s always Dale. She only ever smokes because of Dale. She sits on the bench, wrapped in Aunt Irma's old quilt, with the photo albums laid out on the table. She flicks her lighter, and flips through the album, pages 8-53 (she always skips the baby pictures).&nbsp; If you’re careful, you can sneak upstairs and watch from the guest bedroom window. Don’t make a sound, or she’ll hear you through the screen. No, she won’t be mad, but she’ll put the album away. Then she’ll slide open the door, and ask “Who wants dessert?” (that’s code for “You missed your chance, kid, be quieter next time”).&nbsp; But, if you watch from the window, lying on your stomach, you’ll see her look at the past. You’ll watch her turn the pages, the photos old and dusty, and you’ll worry that the cigarette is gonna light them up. But you don’t say anything, or else you’ll miss it. You’ll miss the bit of vulnerability; that look she only has when she watches The Sound Of Music. It’s in her eyes: she misses him.

If you ask her, she’ll say she doesn’t. It’s a lie, but you’ll believe it when you hear it (until&nbsp;you watch her smoke, and then you know the real truth).&nbsp; Because when Julie misses him, she smokes. Because she wishes he was there to smoke with her. I like to think he is.

To Mom The first to read everything, and the first to say it's good Love you whole bunches

“When we think of the past it's the beautiful things we pick out. We want to believe it was all like that.” - Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid's Tale

Finish This, and Compliment Yourself  (For Me)

I look in the mirror and I realize that I am alive. I stare at my reflection, and my pieces come together: this is my skin, those are my eyes, this is me.&nbsp; Am I happy about it? Depends on the day. I like to say I am. Usually, I am. But if I’m being realistic my perception of myself is a rocky subject. As it is for everyone; we're taught to be harshest with ourselves.&nbsp; I found some old photos, and I realized how much I didn't care as a child. I was smiling so wide, blissfully ignorant of my own appearance. I didn't care how I looked, I just posed for the picture; mom said "smile!", so I did.&nbsp; The women in my family have an interesting relationship with their own appearance, as do so many other women around the world. My mother, my grandmother, my aunt and everyone else would never think to put me, or anyone down. In fact, I’m sure they all truly believe each woman in our family is beautiful. But they’ve never been able to say the same for themselves.&nbsp; So as much as I was told by them my whole life that I’m gorgeous, it was hard to believe it. I watched the most beautiful women in the world meticulously attack every part of themselves until it was no more. And if their beauty isn’t there, who’s to say mine is? If Aphrodite is insecure, what does that say about you?

So I grew to hate my reflection, as so many have before. Started wearing makeup, comparing myself to everyone I met. My smile was hidden away, darkening and disappearing from every photo. Not because I was told to, but because I thought it was necessary.&nbsp; But when I found those old photos, I found the more recent ones too, and I criticized them just the same as I would have when they were taken. Though with that criticism came a wave of guilt. Why are you hating on this little girl’s appearance, you monster? She’s just thirteen. She’s just a child. I stopped hating my old self, and with that, I started to hate my present self less too. Started dressing how I liked, regardless of the attention it gave me. Complimenting myself, and others along the way. I even compared myself to people less, if you can believe such a thing.&nbsp; I’m not going to pretend it was easy. Fuck, it was hard. You don’t get rid of years of self-deprecation in a night. But slowly, really slowly, I felt the harshness begin to fade. My reflection became less of a burden, and more of a fascination.&nbsp;My body wasn't a product, or a commodity. It was just me. I still feel insecure occasionally, I’m not superhuman. But it’s manageable, and it’s not the default. Allow me to put it this way: I am so much more than how I look. Everyone is. My appearance is by far the least interesting thing about me, as it is with everyone else I meet. Why judge yourself on a standard you set for no one else? So I won’t think I’m gorgeous every hour of every day. But I think I’ll smile more in photos now.

The second showed Jesus and Peter together. Peter seemed distraught, begging for something. The Lord stayed calm, that same shine in the window. A rooster sat in between the two of them, blocking Peter’s route. “Lord, you know all things; you know that I love you.” The third illustrated two brothers, Jacob and Esau. Jacob seemed elated, Esau confused. A large crowd of soldiers surrounded them, with three women in the front. This time, the light surrounded them all, almost drowning out the sun painted in the sky. “Find favor in the eyes of my Lord.” The final window showed a father and his sons, him and his youngest embracing. The yellow radiated off of the father, the younger son weeping. His eldest stood in the back of the picture, visibly irritated, and visibly ignored. “He was lost and is found.” The two looked forward, their eyes avoiding each other. They were remembering, as they did every year, and as they would for years to come. At least, this was her assumption. They sat together, ignoring each others presence, and reminiscing. Distracted. Eventually he opened his mouth to speak. “I don’t think I can ever forgive you.”

You cross the hall. I think that maybe It’s to reach me. That your someday&nbsp; Is now my today, and we Didn’t ever stop at all. Will That please you? To be Together again? To be two&nbsp; More examples of people Who can’t give up on each other? Meeting at the doorway, inviting it in again, Is that what lonely lives are for? Because, be honest, the Waves drowned you first.&nbsp; I couldn't have saved you in time.

“God, this is ridiculous.” I throw the notebook onto the seat and rest my head in my hands. What am I doing here? I stop for a moment before slowly taking my phone out of my back pocket. I type in my pin wrong. Then wrong again. Then wrong a third time. It unlocks and I scroll through my contacts until I reach the M’s. Mahika, Malcolm, Marcus, Meghan, Mia ♡… shit. There’s a heart. I must have forgotten to delete it. How… how did I forget to delete it? I swear I deleted everything. Every photo of her, every poem she wrote me, every memory for God’s sake but I forgot a stupid heart?&nbsp; My hand shakes. It shakes a lot. It shakes too much actually, and I put my phone down. I move my hands to the steering wheel and my knuckles go white. I could leave. I should leave. Someone’s gonna call the police on the crazy girl talking to herself in the Methodist church parking lot. I turn, and see the notebook on the seat. The first page is open, and my eyes instinctively read the inscription. I really wish they hadn't.&nbsp;

I take a deep breath, and it wavers a bit on the inhale. Actually no, it doesn't do that, because I’m not crying. I told myself I wouldn’t cry. My makeup looks so nice today I am not fucking crying it off.&nbsp; I let go, and I cry. I cry for the first time in months, for the first time since I left. I cry because I miss her. I cry because I don’t. I cry because I can’t call her. I cry because she wants me to. I cry because I hate the stupid holidays. I cry because I’m gonna be alone on Christmas Eve. I cry because I’m staying with my parents for two goddamn weeks.&nbsp; I cry, and then I drive home. I think I feel better.

Kristen,&nbsp; Please write some of those crazy thoughts down. They’re killing you! Love you forever.&nbsp; Mia ♡

If you do some basic research into paleolithic humans, you will find a lot of their art. It’s a fascinating part of the human condition, our urges to create. Vivid drawings of animals and people, all coming together in beautiful designs, that have managed to last thousands of years. However, there’s a recurring theme throughout multiple early cultures of humanity, and that’s our hands.&nbsp;&nbsp; Handprints are everywhere, in all types. Big hands holding small ones. Hands of the old and hands of the young. Hands with missing fingers from the cold, an unexpected consequence of hairless skin. There are even children’s handprints sitting high up on walls; a picture of resting atop shoulders, reaching as high as one could. The past wasn’t as scary as we are led to believe. Our old ancestors were just as human.&nbsp; There is evidence of paleolithic bodies having broken bones, of injuries they couldn’t repair at such an early point in human history. Our assumption is that they’d be killed. Left behind, abandoned for being useless. But instead, we see healing and recovery. We see the bone repairing itself, being held in place and cared for. Can you imagine that? How hard it must have been in that time, resting enough to repair a bone? You could never do that alone; you would need the love of others just to survive that kind of injury, let alone heal it.

Yet I’m told humanity is selfish. That it’s in my nature. Narcissus has a deep hold on my genetics, and only Christ himself could escape that kind of grasp. Give up the fight, and just be mean. We all are.&nbsp; I wonder, why?&nbsp; I look at the art, at the hands. I look at the fingers missing, and I see the bones within them. I look at my own hands as I write this, the scars I’ve healed and the art I’ve created. Julie’s hands around a cigarette, Kristen’s hands shaking before she calls. I feel human hands guiding me here. They're holding mine, reassuring me.&nbsp; So again I wonder if we are selfish. For if this is self-worship, then I’ve found my God. Cooperation, creativity, selfishness, and love. I feel the rich energy of humanity enter my veins and rise through my heart, racing up to my mind. I feel selfish, I feel seen, and I feel human.&nbsp;

MARIE: Interesting.&nbsp; JANE: I guess.&nbsp; MARIE: Can I tell you something Jane? JANE: Of course.&nbsp; MARIE: No offense, but your afterlife sounds terrible.&nbsp; JANE: (offended) What? Why? MARIE: Well like, what is that? You spend your whole life on earth dwelling on the past only to arrive in the afterlife and do the same?&nbsp; JANE: You’re not dwelling, you’re just talking! Sharing your experiences! MARIE: You walk around a blank white void, with nothing to do except talk to each other about your past, for all eternity, while you try to find the people that actually interest you. It seems like dwelling.&nbsp; JANE: Oh my God, you make it sound so awful. You’re just meeting new people! With none of the usual societal pressures that come with that!&nbsp; MARIE: I thought you were an introvert?&nbsp; JANE: Jesus— look, I didn’t think it through that much! I just thought it would be nice if the afterlife kinda forced you to talk to people you otherwise never would have met. It doesn’t have to be about your past, but like, what else would there be to talk about, you know?&nbsp; MARIE: (beat) Well that’s nicer than you originally described it.&nbsp; JANE: I didn’t know I was going to be questioned about it so much.&nbsp; (pause, they both turn to look out the window again) JANE: What do you think the afterlife is?&nbsp; MARIE: I don’t know. I guess I don’t know if it even exists.&nbsp;

JANE: Well nobody does, except the dead, and they've been pretty quiet about it. (beat) What would you want in an afterlife? Doesn’t have to be what you think it is, but what would you want? If it&nbsp;could be anything? MARIE: (pauses, thinking) I… I would want something completely different.&nbsp; JANE: And what does that mean, exactly?&nbsp; MARIE: Well I wouldn’t know, cause if it’s totally unique I’ve never heard of it. But… I just wouldn’t want my afterlife to be like everything I’ve already experienced on earth. That’s my past, I want my afterlife to be… the future.&nbsp; JANE: Wow. I think a lot of people disagree with you.&nbsp; MARIE: Right? I thought everyone would think like me, but when you see any depiction of Heaven in fiction, it’s always like a “sunshine and rainbows” version of the life I already have. Why do people want “paradise on earth” instead of just… “paradise”.&nbsp; JANE: (pause) You really don’t like the past, do you? MARIE: What? JANE: I mean, your ideal afterlife is something where you can’t think about the past anymore. You hated mine, accusing me of “dwelling on the past” when that’s like the least notable thing about it. What have you got against looking back?&nbsp; MARIE: I… I just hate it. Like, it’s over now, why care? JANE: Is that really what you think? That we should just never care about our past?&nbsp; MARIE: Only when it’s relevant.&nbsp; JANE: Relevant?&nbsp; MARIE: Important.&nbsp; JANE: And what's “important”?

“Have a holly, jolly Christmas, and when you walk down the street, say hello to friends you know, and everyone you—” “God, no.” I click the radio off, taking an embarrassing amount of tries as I miss horribly. I sigh, gripping the steering wheel tight and fixing my eyes on the road. It’s snowy, and if I keep thinking like this I’ll crash. I need a distraction.&nbsp; “Get it together Kristen.” I click the radio back on, hand ready to change the station.&nbsp;&nbsp; “Somebody waits for you, kiss her once for me—”&nbsp; “Ok, now that’s just a sign.” I click off the radio a second time, sure to hit it first try. I look around the road for somewhere to park: the roads are too small, the school is a definite no, the Methodist—actually the Methodist could work. I pull into the small parking lot and turn off the car, looking up. “CHRISTMAS EVE SERVICE - 9:00 AM, ALL WELCOME!”&nbsp; “Christ- ok Kristen. What are we doing here… we’re talking to ourselves, that’s what we’re doing.” I rest my head against the steering wheel. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. We are going to talk to ourselves, because it is perfectly healthy, and Dr Jameson says the stigma around it is unfounded.” I lift my head, reading the sign again and laughing.&nbsp;

“This is stupid! This is so stupid.” I lay back in the chair and close my eyes. Maybe if I lay here long enough I’ll fall asleep. It could work. I’d be here right on time for the service tomorrow, waking up in the parking lot. I’m sure Father Thomas wouldn’t mind. I sigh again.&nbsp; "Where’s that damn notebook, I’m making a list.” I grab my purse from the passenger seat and pull out the blank notebook, intentionally ignoring the inscription on the cover. I flip to a random page and open the glove box, looking for a pen. “God, I should really clean this ou— Aha! Ok, making a list.”

Pros and cons to calling Mia: Pro: you’ll stop thinking about it and might get some sleep.&nbsp; Con: she might actually pick up.&nbsp; Pro: you might not be alone for the holidays.&nbsp; Con: you’ll have to break her heart again when you leave after Christmas.&nbsp; Pro: you might have a healthy conversation.&nbsp; Con: you never have healthy conversations with exes.&nbsp; Pro: it’s just a phone call. Con: you hate phone calls.&nbsp; Con: all her friends hate you now.&nbsp; Con: she probably does too.&nbsp;

Thank you to my lovely photographer Hayden Cristina for my cover photo, and making my old books and jewelry look so much cooler than they ever would otherwise. Paintings (In order of appearance): Suzanne - Auguste Levêque (1866-1921) Roses and Jasmine in a Delft Vase - Pierre-Auguste Renoir (1841-1919) Old Church, Whittinghame - Charles Martin Hardie (1858-1916) Reception at the Exhibition - Wincenty Kasprzicky (1802-1849) Winter Landscape - Casper David Friedrich (1774-1840) The Creation of Adam - Michelangelo (1475-1564)

Thank you to Ms Dobson, for all the encouragement and time you gave me Thank you to the entire literary arts class, for all the edits and moral support Thank you to my family, for being my biggest fans and critics since day one Thank you to Granny, for being the first to call me a writer Thank you to Isabelle, for loving this before you even read it And finally thank you to me, Our relationship is complicated, but I love you anyway.

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