Been Here Before

Have I been here before? I think that I have. There’s something familiar about it all. That tree there — I feel like I know it very well. Or am I thinking of some other tree in some other park?

I run my hand down the crooked bark, feeling each and every waving line and sharp, jagged edge. This is a familiar tree, I think. And the sound of that creek babbling by the exposed roots. Yes, I’ve been here before. I have touched this tree and sat beneath its great boughs, letting the cool water dance across my naked toes. That was a long time ago, wasn’t it? I can’t even begin to realize just how many years it was been since I was here.

I sit myself down at the base of the trunk, hugging onto the gnarled exposed root system to keep from falling into the creek — not that it would matter if I did. I slide my feet into the gently flowing water and imagine that I can still feel it. The others have told me that they’ve long since given up on remembering the sensation of touch, but I still try. “Maybe today,” I lie to myself every day, “maybe today.”

I miss touch more than anything. The others always say, whenever we talk under the stars at midnight, that it’s the people that they miss. The loved ones they once had but have not been able to find. They always told us back then when we were alive that we’ll all be reunited someday, but they lied or didn’t know the truth. Yes, we have each other — those who died at the same time — but only the very monumentally lucky (or is it unlucky?) get to wander with those they knew in life. For the rest of us, we try to find our loved ones until it becomes obvious we’ll only have each other. I assume it takes everyone a different amount of time. It took Carl a hundred years to come to terms with it.

It only took me three days.

I learned the lesson quickly, but I admit that it stung and that it still does sometimes. I hadn’t had anyone when I became what I am now. I had already grieved — already accepted that I would be alone forever. And now I am. It’s funny how things can come true like that. 

No, I don’t much miss the people; I already did all my missing before. I miss the simple touch of a blade of grass on my ankles. The feel of a strong gust of wind ripping through my hair before the storm hits. I miss the smells too. I was never one to dwell too much on smells. I didn’t like candles much and smells never pulled up memories for me like people say. But now that I have no sense of smell at all, well, maybe I cherished smells more than I thought I had. It’s funny how some things I had thought were so true and others were so very, very false. Yes, quite funny indeed.

I sit underneath the boughs of that great big tree and I imagine what the water had felt like so long ago. The creek had seemed much larger than, as had the tree. I suppose I was only a child the last time I had been here. Everything feels larger to a child. I remember that when I had been here before there were little minnows swimming around, nibbling at my toes. I remember that it had tickled.

I remember that it was hot that day. The air had been so heavy, so thick. I had felt like I weighed a ton. Feeling weighted. I can only imagine that now. I miss that too, even if it had cost me so much worry when I was alive. 

Funny.

I get up. I can’t feel the water anyway. I can’t feel the minnows. I can’t feel how cold the water is compared to the sweltering heat of the air. I can see the glint of the sun of the rippling surface of the creek. I like it more now, I think, than I did back then. It’s not too bright anymore. It doesn’t make me squint and see those little red dots against the blackness of my closed eyes. I never liked that. Always made me think my eyes were going to burn off.

I walk through the scattering of trees, weaving around them even though I could just walk right through. It seems wrong to walk through these trees. I know these trees, even if I had forgotten them. They feel sacred. I know them more than the walls of my old bedroom or this or that building I pass through while I’m wandering. These trees mean something.

I hop across the little creek and onto the wood chip path. The wood chips used to stick their pointy bits into the bottom of my feet. It hurt, but I had liked it in a way. Now, the wood chips didn’t even move under my feet. Probably because I don’t have any weight. I’m not real. Not like I was back then. I walk up the path, trying to remember exactly how everything had felt and smelled to the little child I had been when I had been here before.

It hurts, but I like it.

There’s the playground. Its broken little swing set sits there just the way I remember it. Three little swings all in a row hanging from old metal chains. The one on the left side dangles down by just one chain. 

The other chain just swings back and forth with no purpose. I remember how it felt when the other kids would whip it at me. How the metal was not nearly as smooth as it looked. It had all these sharp little points that would catch on my clothes or on my arm. I remember the mark I had on my skin for weeks. How you could see the indentation of each chain link, lined in purple, across my neck. I remember how I couldn’t hide it and how I told my parents that it was a rash. I remember how they must have known and yet did nothing about it. My mom just gave me a bottle of blue aloe vera and told me not to scratch. I remember how happy I was that I didn’t have to stop coming here.

I remember the slide. I loved that slide. It was the tallest thing in the world to me. And it was so steep. I remember. But I do not linger at the slide. I look at it. I smile. And I float on. Isn’t it funny how our favorite things as children are almost completely meaningless later?

It is such a small playground. It was then, but I don’t remember knowing that. I must have known it was small, but all I can remember is that it was familiar. I had been here before, and I kept coming back. Playing. Running around. Hiding from the other kids. Laughing and smiling. Sitting with my feet in the little creek, all alone under the great big tree. I loved it.

I still love it.

I think I’ll stay. I think I’ll wander here forever. I walk back to the tree and sit underneath its boughs. I feel happy.

I feel happy.