transparent

something i wrote for one of my classes


“Transparent”


If I could write anybody a letter and be completely honest with them about how I feel it would be to my brothers and sisters. I would tell them that they mean the world to me. I love how one can eat a bowl of ketchup, while the other can only fall asleep on the couch. I would tell them that I never meant to hurt them when I left. I would tell them that not only did I take the memories, but a necessary guilt that haunts me everyday. I would tell my brother to stop smoking and tell my sister to date someone younger, ten years younger. I would tell them I care. More than they ever know.

I watch as my mother purses her lips, a perfect, tender, circle. She inhales deeply, allowing the smoke to fill her lungs. She closes her eyes, savoring the sweet moment. Exhale. Perfect ringlets collide into my face. I inhale deeply; the sweet menthol is ecstasy to me.Her beautiful scent burns my insides, but I crave more. When I was 9, I used to roll up pieces of paper between my palms and then pretend to smoke them. My dad caught me and made me stay in my room all night. I cried and cried, I could barely catch my breath. “But mommy does it, I’m sorry.” I didn’t look him in the eye for two and a half days.

This fall I spent three glorified days in Munich, Germany… while partaking in the most famous drinking festivities known to man, Oktoberfest. The tents were packed to capacity. My friends danced while I stumbled on top of the wooden tables. The air thick with roasted almonds and body odor swirled around us as we sang along to the song, “New York, New York.” It could have been the beer or it could have been the company, but my mind was on an eternal high. The images crisp and the feelings real. This is exactly where I am suppose to be.

Smoking kills; even worse, so does second hand smoking. Of course the scent I crave would be detrimental to my health. How can someone love something so much even when you know its so bad? I breathe it in anyway. It doesn’t matter where. It could be underground on the subway, the raw sewage and the lingering mold make most people squirm- I don’t even notice it. I sit myself next to the milk-chocolate man. His skin burns with stale beer and old McDonalds fries. His breath smells of sweet menthol. I inhale him. I inhale the guilt. Instantly, I am on my way to the place where I want to be, I am back in your memory.


Three weeks ago, I stopped by for dinner. I hadn’t seen the kids in awhile and you said you would make something special, like the old days. It was the eight of us again. Did you ever notice how if you turn an eight on its side, it’s the infinity sign? I like that. I walk into the house to find everyone crammed on the couch, six little bodies with eyes fixated on the television. The girls run toward me and jump into my arms, all eager to tell me about soccer or about acting. The boys are not as visibily enthuisastic but their awkward hugs last a little longer than most. Why is it so hard to come back here? The dining room, kitchen, and television all reside in the same room. Five burnt chicken breasts lay across the long table; the lack of food only emphasizes how empty the table is. The mashed potatoes smell like cardboard and the corn has freezer burn. We all mask the terrible taste with mounds of butter and salt. My mother doesn’t say hello, or goodbye. The kids don’t stop talking to me about their lives. And I chew, relentlessly on the chicken.I read somewhere once that smell is linked to memory. A certain scent can trigger a memory you may never thought you had. Stale piss transports me back to my thumb sucking days in pre-school. Ciggerate smoke takes me to my mom. The smell lingers there, like her, a hovering cloud. It’s transparent, her love. It fills me up with emptiness. Sometimes I try catching it in the palm of my hand. I always thought I could make it stay inside my palm, but then I would open my hand and it’d be gone. I tried so hard to keep it there, but it would just slip right through my fingers. My sister always asks where I am going and why can’t I stay. I never know the answer, but I wish I did.