The Pseudo-Lamentations of the Musaceae

 

 

    As the sun inevitably rises once again, it peeks through the window as it does every morning. The brightness of the sun sensed behind closed eyelids, the warmth gently wakes him up. He awakens to the sounds of birds chirping, and wind blowing fallen leaves, the sounds of so many autumn mornings. As he opens his weary eyes, the lids still heavy, the unseen dust particles floating in the air are visible in the streaks of sunlight coming in through the glass. He stretches and writhes repositioning himself in his warm, safe bed, and a gentle smile stretches across his face as he realizes a new day begins, a new day with seemingly infinite possibilities. Another little twenty-four hour adventure, filled with new things to learn, taste, see, feel, hear, smell and experience. Perhaps nothing truly new, but even things experienced in times past that are a joy. His eyes closing again, he rolls over taking in a deep breath of brisk morning air through his nose and letting it out through his mouth, and clutches onto his blanket tighter, pulling it up to his chin. In his half-conscious state the morning air, warm sun, and chirping birds, create a feeling of nostalgia. He remembers the mornings as a boy that his mother would wake him up with a kiss on the forehead, stroking his hair, and he would smell apple pastries being baked in the kitchen. He sniffs inaudibly hoping to smell apples and cinnamon, but gets nothing but the chilly air of early morning.

 

 

 Just as one wave crashing gives birth to another, one memory acts as a catalyst to many memories. In his bed, the nostalgia pours into his mind. He’s a young boy in a cornfield wearing his favorite brown leather jacket and red sneakers. He traipses quietly, carefully moving stalks out of his way, so cautious of making a sound that he’s barely breathing. He hears rustling off to his left, and he stops cold in his tracks, his breathing stopped entirely now. The rustling stops and everything stays silent for what feels like an eternity to a child. Standing there so still that not even his eyes move, he listens. There’s nothing but a slight cool gust of wind blowing over the top of the towers of corn. His ears perk up with the sound of quiet giggling, but he stays still for a second longer. Then in an instant, he takes off towards the sounds, crashing through the tall stalks, getting closer to the sound of laughter that stays a few steps ahead of him. As he bursts out into a clearing, a vast wide-open field, he sees two other children only a few feet ahead of him. His legs burning from exertion, he makes one last desperate lunge forward slapping the shoulder of one of the children.

”Tag, you’re it! No hit backs!” he yells before sprinting back into the towering jungle to hide. The children laugh and scream for hours, content with their own little world, and simple innocent friendship.

 

    More memories flood in. He looks out his window at the white blanket covering all that he sees. White flakes slowly, and gently falling from realms unknown to the ground below. Looking out at the endless white countryside, it looks almost as if the snow has fallen on the entire world. He closes his eyes and imagines the whole world being covered in snow, forests, deserts, jungles. He pictures zebras laying in the snow, nearly invisible, only their stripes visible to the casual passerby. The zebras frolicking about until they see a lion and then they all lay down in the snow, the lion looking out into the white emptiness walks away confused and disappointed. He laughs at his own idea, and puts a few more marshmallows in his hot chocolate as his dad adds another log to the fire. His family is sitting around his grandfather listening to him tell the story of how he met his wife. The old man holds the wrinkled spotted hand of his love and smiles at her. And the boy can’t help but wonder if he’ll ever find somebody that he cares for that much.

 

    Another memory streams in following the riverbed carved by the previous memory. It’s summer now, and the young boy is now a young man. The adolescent sits in a tree by a lake a couple miles from home. He comes out here often to swim with his pals, but this time was different. He stares out at the sparkling waters, watching the gentle ripples, and little waves. He tries to use this site to calm himself, but to no avail. He’s nervous. As much as he tries to ignore the feeling in his stomach, his hands still sweat. He looks at his watch again. It’s the third time in five minutes. His heart racing, he considers going home. But he can’t, he can’t bring himself leave. Wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans, he stares back out at the lake trying to calm himself again. He closes his eyes for a minute and sees that hair, as dark and silky as the dark sky on a cloudy night, her eyes, the color of crunchy fallen leaves at the end of autumn, and that smile, that beautiful smile. He checks his watch again. He starts to climb down from the tree, deciding he’s waited here long enough. She’s not really coming. It was silly for him to think that she was being serious about meeting here. He’s just going to go home. As he gets down onto the ground, he sees her walking by the lake. As nervous as he was before he’s twice as nervous now. As she walks up to him all he can do is stare with wide eyes. Stare at that dark hair, and brown eyes, her cute girlish face. As she draws closer, only a few feet away he notices that she smells faintly of strawberries. Standing in front of each other now, they reach out their hands to one another. They stand holding one another’s hands, and he can’t tell if her palms are sweaty too, or if it’s just his, or if he’s trembling or if that’s her. He doesn’t really care about the answers to those trivial questions. He’s happy to just be in the moment. She smiles that sweet delicate smile at him and closes her eyes. As nervous as he was before, he’s twice as nervous now. He licks his lips, and closes his eyes. Puckering his lips a bit too tight, he leans forward and they embrace. It seemed to last forever, and yet it wasn’t long enough.  Her lips tasted like strawberries. A memory of his first kiss.

 

   The memories flee his mind as quickly as they entered. And he’s left with but a vague feeling of sadness remembering the times past. Sad not because the memories themselves are sad, but rather because he knows that they are merely lingering thoughts of the past. Never again will he have that same joy of romping through the cornfields, never again will he talk to his deceased grandfather, never again can he have that first kiss. Feelings and experiences that can never be duplicated, that can never be relived. However, a slight smile edges across the side of his mouth because he got to feel those things in the first place. As sad as it may be that that is all in the past, he wouldn’t erase those memories for anything. They made him who he is now; they shaped his way of thinking, and ways of feeling. They made him, and they were made for him. They are his own secret treasure hidden in the recesses of his mind, countless riches sitting there waiting for him to come reminisce with them, and sometimes share with others.

 

 He rolls over and yawns, blinking several times. In his half-apperceptive state, he begins to contemplate on the possibilities. Not only on the possibilities of this new day, but on the possibilities of his life. He thinks of all the things he’s yet to accomplish or experience. But rather than feeling discouraged, or overwhelmed by all the things he’s not done, he looks ahead with an eagerness at what he knows he can do. He thinks of traveling, seeing the different cultures of new lands. He thinks of all the sights around the world he’s yet to see, the many foods he’s yet to taste, the many fragrances he’s yet to smell. He wonders what the morning smells like in China. He begins to think of all the people he hasn’t met. Each individual unique, with their own memories and experiences. Each person shaped by their pasts, and continuing to shape their future. He thinks of how many friends he’s yet to make, and how many people he’s unknowingly waiting to meet. He thinks of the possibilities of love. He thinks back to that dark haired girl, and imagines feeling that way about someone even after their hair had become white and tangled, their hands no longer soft and smooth, but wrinkled and spotted. He imagines waking up to that same face every morning, and watching her sleep until woken by the rays of sunlight. He imagines being by a fire on a cold snowy day, telling his kids and grandkids how he first met his wife.  He imagines finding some one to share all those memories with for the rest of his life.

 

 With these thoughts and hopes in mind he’s ready to begin a new day. Another twenty-four hour adventure. He’s ready to see what the day has in store for him, and is curious about what he will know and feel by the time he goes to sleep that night. He yawns again and begins to sit up. And then he is hit by a single cataclysmic realization that ends everything. All wonder ceases, joy for life dies. Hope no longer existent. All desire, fear, passion, and hurt leave him as if they had never been there to begin with. If he could feel,  the pain of his loss would be infinite. If he could want, he would want that pain more than anything else just so he could have something. If he was filled with anything, he would be filled with a gross antipathy for his own lack of sentience. His sudden lack of cognizance had endless implications. His memories never were, and his dreams never to be. He would never laugh, nor cry, he could never be angry, nor at peace, he would never love, nor be loved. He would never hear the leaves rustling, or taste the seasons in the air, he would never feel the cool water against his skin, or the wind in his hair. He would never be overcome with feelings of nostalgia, he would never feel the warmth of friendship, he would never know the pains of longing for someone, or the boundless joy of having that person long for him. All the things that were, were no longer, and all things that could’ve been shall never be. As he lies their on the mahogany table, the sun beams down on his thick yellow skin. He lies there motionless, quite. But despite his silence, despite his quiescence he seemed to lament to all around him, he seemed to convey the sad truth of his existence. He seemed to ruefully declare  “I….am a banana.”