The Land of Compromise

You were always the one that wanted to go out. You never turned down a call to adventure, no matter the kind, and I was always the one to resist it. The only adventure I wanted was the kind in books. All wrapped up with a neat little bow, and never requiring me to leave my room. I could travel to faraway lands and meet beautiful people with just a few pages, but you never left it at that. You insisted that I needed real adventure, and after some convincing and coaxing, I’d go with.

We were just kids. The adventures we went on were laughable to adults. They didn’t see the magic that you saw in every step, the excitement of going to a new park, the wonder of seagulls wheeling overhead. To be honest, I didn’t really see it either. Of course, I was a little excited about going places, but never at the level that you were. You wanted to talk to the other kids and ask the old woman on the bench what had been there before. I had been content to sit miserably at the top of the slide and count the seconds until I got to go home.  

You were older, a whole grade ahead of me. The other kids made fun of you for being friends with me; I heard them. They thought you were weird for being friends with a baby, but you didn’t care. You would insist that it was fun to be friends with me. I’m not so sure about that. I refused to do what you wanted without some sort of bribery, and I never invited you to do the things I wanted. You were too loud, too hyper, too chatty. I didn’t understand your motives for a long time.

There was one place that I was happy to go to with you. There was a small creek in your backyard. I thought it was huge; a raging river that cut through the center of your world, but of course, that wasn’t true. A big tree stretched over it and hanging from the big tree was a bench. You called it the Land of Compromise. We would sit and read and chat about the places and characters. It was the only time you were quiet, and I reveled in it. I looked forward to those days in the Land of Compromise, gathering books I thought you might like.

You were a slow reader, and it forced me to pick shorter books, books I usually wouldn’t even glance at. Your favorite to read was the Magic Treehouse series, but you liked the Redwall series better. The books were long, so I read them to you. You would sit next to me and weave flower crowns and dip your toes in the cold water. I cherished those moments. Your parents would bring us snacks and drinks and ask questions and be wonderfully attentive. I didn’t realize that they saw the exact same thing that you did.

When you weren’t around, I was completely alone. I didn’t want to go out on my own, it wasn’t fun, and I was afraid. All the kids in the neighborhood were older than me and would steal my books. They would push me around, call me names, tell me that I was nothing. So, I would stay home. I would sit in my room and devour books, desperately wishing I could go to a world of magic. My parents were happy to supply me with books. They would buy me dozens at a time, leaving them on the table near the front door. I loved the books but resented the purpose of them. They were there to distract me. My parents provided them to excuse themselves from providing anything else.

You and your family saw that. Somehow, you all saw the loneliness and desperation that everyone else, including me, missed. It took me too long to notice it. It took me too long to realize I made myself as small as possible, that I hid away in fantastical worlds, just to avoid real life. Just to avoid the facts that stared me dead in the face. By the time I noticed, it was already too late to thank you.

When you went to middle school, I was sure that was the end. You would get friends who were cooler than me, then I would really be alone. But that didn’t happen. You still invited me over, you still took me out on adventures, you still asked me to read to you in the Land of Compromise. No matter how many other friends you had, I was always included. And you had a lot of friends. Everyone loved you and was drawn to your infectious laughter. You’d drag me to the fair with the group, ignoring my protests and annoyance.

Even when I tried to push you away, you stood your ground. Whenever I tried to shut down, you were right there, demanding I get out of bed. I hated you, hated your perfect family, and hated that everyone loved you. I was young and angry. No matter how much I screamed at you, insulted you, threatened you, you refused to leave. You brushed off my words and offered to make chocolate chip pancakes. You insisted on taking care of me when no one else even bothered to check-in. You somehow knew exactly what to do to help. I only wish I had been able to do the same for you.

After we graduated and moved away, we still stayed in touch. We’d visit each other, and you’d take me on adventures. I’d read you books and tell you all about what had been going on. I made more friends, all of them through you. I could never figure out how to start a conversation, but you did. We’d go to parks and restaurants and zoos. We were older, but you still had that same childlike wonder in the world. You got excited about the whipped cream on your coffee, stared in amazement every time we passed that eagle statue, all the things that had faded to the background for me. I should have noticed when you stopped. I should have noticed when you stopped texting me every time something interesting happened. I should have noticed when the world seemed dull to you. I should have noticed when the sparkle in your eyes disappeared.

I try to go to the restaurants you liked. I order your favorite coffee. I stare at the eagle statue, trying to figure out what you saw in it. You would have never approved of me isolating myself, so I joined a book club. I fell out of touch with our old friends. I couldn’t bear to look at them anymore. My circle’s smaller than it was, but it’s still there, and I feel like you would be proud of me. I can’t bring myself to read the Redwall books anymore. I still have them, but I don’t want to make new memories of them. Whenever I see them on my shelf, I see you sitting on that bench on the Land of Compromise, full of joy and light, a light that I miss, and one that I want to create for myself, if only to make the eleven-year-old version of you proud.