The Stream

The wooden stairs creak above me as they spray dust on my coal-black hair. I lie there, unnoticed, unbothered, unseen, surrounded by old boxes and shabby shoes that once belonged to a woman whose face I can’t seem to remember. I have a fear of spiders, although, at this moment, they don’t seem to scare me, as they make their way across beautifully engineered webs. A gentle stream of light starts to peek through the cracks of the closet door and a familiar voice calls out to me – “We’re going out! Lunch is on the stove.” I’m not hungry, but I get up anyway, as my back is beginning to ache due to the irregularly shaped stone floor. As I turn to close the door behind me, I look back into the darkened room one last time and am overcome by a heart-wrenching feeling of emptiness. It’ll pass. Right?

Slowly, my feet move across the freshly cleaned living room carpet. I notice the framed picture above the time-worn television is crooked. As I straighten it, I’m reminded of the moment it was taken. We had rented a sailboat and taken it across Torch Lake. Even though this was years ago, I clearly remember the calm brought about by the reflection of the golden rays of sun on the vastness of blue. I was happy. Or maybe just happier. I finally avert my eyes from the photograph and begin to walk up the steps that lead to my room. It used to be much more colorful despite being the same. The door to the balcony is ajar – I must’ve forgotten to close it – and resting on the small nightstand is my journal, a brown and worn leather notebook. I calmly open it and begin to write:

Eyes of water and longing

Feeling the earth crack below

Where mines run deep

and simpler waters (used to) weep

Eyes of flaw and ideal

Liars and thieves…

Loss? That thing that stains

For I haven’t ice in these veins

Eyes of life and feelings new

Searching for that which still echoes

Dare I confront them – why?

Why even try

I read and reread the poem before closing my journal. I never fully understand what I write, but, then again, I never fully understand what I think.

I look out my bedroom window and notice the sky is darkening and, by the goosebumps on my forearms, that it’s getting colder. I get up off the unmade bed and make my way down towards the kitchen. Even though the smell of roasted chicken makes my stomach growl, I go out to the backyard and begin closing the grey shutters. The reddish sunset lights up on the yellow walls and the ivy which grows on them, as well as the black tiled roof. All of a sudden, I hear a loud snap behind me – I swiftly spin around, my mind racing with all the possible scenarios of who or what could be behind the noise. There, standing in the midst of the dark oak trees, is a boy, staring at me with an intrigued look on his face. He’s young, no older than ten years of age, wearing a plain red shirt and baggy jeans. His eyes, dark and kind, scan me, as though I’m a contemporary art painting with a profound yet unrevealed meaning.

“Hello,” I whisper in a raspy voice. I clear my throat and repeat myself. No answer. He looks lonely, abandoned almost. “Are you hungry?” He nods. I invite him inside and hand him a generous plate of chicken and mashed potatoes. He grabs himself a seat at the small round table near the grandfather clock and immediately begins devouring his food, barely swallowing before taking another bite. “Where are your parents?” I ask as I offer him a glass of tap water.

“Don’t know,” he replies, with a mouthful of food. I sit down at the chair opposite him and watch him gulp down the water – there’s something so familiar about him, so recognizable, yet I can’t seem to make out what it is. Unsurprisingly, he finishes his meal quickly and lets out a sigh of relief. The boy then reaches across the table and delicately grabs my hand. “Come.” Without hesitation, he jumps off the chair and leads me out the door and towards the trees where I had found him.

“Hey! Where are we going? Where are you taking me?” I yell out as he pulls me deeper and deeper into the gloomy woods, a silvery light shimmering through the thick branches above, lighting up a dirt pathway which leads us steadily downward. After several minutes, he stops, letting go of my hand. I look up to realize we’ve arrived at a stream, beautiful and narrow, its water clear and shallow. “Why have you brought me here?”

“You don’t remember, do you?” he asks with a disappointed tone. After seeing the perplexed look on my face, he points at a large polished stone near the water. I cautiously walk over to it and crouch to take a closer look. On it, written in large childlike handwriting, the words “This is Willow, the best dog ever,” are carved. I bury my face between my thighs – how could I have forgotten my best friend. My eyes flow and only cease as I get up to face the boy.   

“How do you know this?”

“The same way I know our name.” My jaw drops and so do my knees.

“Am I dreaming?” I ask desperately.

“No,” he replies softly.

“So this is real?” He takes an audible breath before answering.

“No.” I let my body sink into the small pebbles that make up the stream shore. A mix of confusion and comfort takes over my mind.

“What do I do now?” I plead while gazing up at the constellations that are beginning to form on the night sky. The boy slowly walks over and lies down next to me.

“You do what you did here, all those years ago… you let go.”

“What if I can’t?” My question fades alongside the forgiving water of the stream. After what felt like hours, I get up. Slowly, I take off the black suit that I’ve been wearing for too long. I gently hang it on the engraved stone as the cold makes its way further into my bones. “Jay?”

“Yes?” he replies, his voice quivering.

“I miss you.”

“I know.”

 William Childs (12B) – May 2023