Lest I Forget

The field was unremarkable if considered within the context of all fields. There was grass, but upon closer inspection, there were bald patches that revealed muddy soil that lacked the fertility of deeper and darker soils. The grass was in competition with moss, clover and a whole host of neighbours that the less enlightened would refer to as weeds. The bigotry of the word weed made him feel awkward as he walked this field of his. And so he looked upon the bare hedgerow and wished for better days. Days where the hedges would wear wonderful coats of leaves and contain the heartbeats of life, both present and future. There was the promise of better days here, when the hedge would become a home again and the grass would respond to this transformation, becoming a full head of hair once more, reversing the onslaught of time in a way that he never could. There was but one circle for a person and he was well travelled along the final curve now.

Absently, he snaked his fingers through the thinning hair upon his head as he continued his circular walk. The familiarity of the gesture was a comfort, but there was also torture there. Grieving for what he once was, but never would be again. He ached, and his aching reminded him of a time when everything about him worked. This reminiscence was a lie of sorts. He had been an awkward teen and his gawkiness had followed him well into his thirties. Had remained a stain on his presence until he’d learned to ignore it as best he could. And yet, he’d been a beautiful, carefree child. The mirror of the ugly duckling. A regression of sorts. Dark thoughts and imagined slights casting a shadow upon his life. Baggage that he’d all too willingly accepted and dragged around with him in favour of braving a life well lived. The ball and chain of hurt and pain. Lessons calling out to him. But he would not listen, however loud they shouted, and however much chaos they caused in his often fragmented and troublesome life. Busying himself, so that he never had to face the world full on. Too afraid of what he might see. The reflection of who he really was, a pale imitation of who he was meant to be. An all pervasive and overwhelming fear that he may contain too much darkness to ever be worthwhile.

Despite himself, he smiled at this recollection of his teens. His awkwardness had been a natural brake on his youthful exuberance. Kept him from falling out of emotional trees and running headlong into promises that were only ever traps. He’d been beautiful then. Sadly, he only saw that beauty for what it was now. At the time, he’d been skinny angles, overthinking every movement and act. Later, his old school mates would tell him what they’d really thought of him. Describing someone he barely knew, but he knew they were saying this about him all the same. There was a familiarity there. They spoke of someone he had also once known.

Always, there had been this distance between who he was out in the world and who he knew himself to be. Something lost in translation. A disconnect between his words and deeds and his intent. He’d wanted people to know who he was, but every time he tried to broker an introduction, he only seemed to push those he loved away. 

He’d heard that people only saw what they wanted to see. Bringing with them a painting of expectations that they hung upon those they met and eventually grew to love. They loved what they believed to be, not what was. All the same, he felt unwanted and unloved. Knew that he was surrounded by love at times in his life, but understood that that love was not for him. It was for the façade. He disliked the charade, but in truth, he was too afraid to do much of anything about it. The phases of his fear took on different mantles, too awkward, too busy, too much to lose. Now he was just too tired.

This field of his seemed to have grown of late. That was his initial take on this state of affairs, but try as he might, he could not stave off the reality of it. He was diminished. Small and frail. His light waning. Past victories held little comfort. His wisdom and experience had no compensatory effect. He mourned his former self and in his grief he focused upon just one thing. He did not want to be forgotten.

An unaccustomed rage accompanied this desire of his. A sorrow-filled passion that baulked at the unfairness of his condition. Suddenly, the teenager was no longer awkward. He now had a cause, and in that cause he could be himself at last.

He had a sense of that, always had. But the substantiation of that sense was slipping away from him. For far too long he had wanted to live on in the memories of others and he thought that he had made a good fist of that. That however they had painted him, he had in the end managed to shine through and make his mark. Rendered their desire for what he should be an outfit that he chose to wear as he walked through life in the way that he chose. There was always something of the rebel about him. He’d never lost that. Knew that he never would. 

Pausing his walk, he turned his face skywards, gazing up into the infinite and laughing a dry laugh of a frustration that he’d harboured and nurtured for an age. For good measure, he shook his fist at the universe. He had wanted to bellow and scream, but the laugh that was more of a chuckle beat him to it. He left it at that. It was fitting. Still he looked up into the sky, his focus well beyond that which could be seen with the eye alone.

He understood a little more. He was a part of what he was seeing. The deconstruction of who he was and what had been was all a part of it. Necessary. He may be forgetting himself right now, but that wasn’t the point. He was in transit. On his way to the next adventure. All those memories that were being stripped from him would be awaiting him further along a path he was currently ill equipped to see, let alone understand. 

He nodded a small nod, and a tear dribbled down his cheek. A capsule of yet another memory leaking from him. The name of the band at the first concert he’d ever attended was gone as the tear fell from his face and was lost in the patchy grass by his slippered foot.

“All part of letting go,” he whispered to himself as he finally understood what was happening to him, and in understanding it, he accepted it. Felt cleansed. Lighter. The pain flooding out of him as he finally let it go and he soared upwards. No longer weighed down with a burden that was never his to carry. And he had carried it for such a long, long time. 

Lesson learned.

Better late, than never.

He rose above the hurt he’d been gifted and felt a love he’d never allowed himself to fully experience before. The love that was always meant for him. He was smiling as he slipped gently to the ground. Joining his single tear in the grasses of his home. Now eternal and enduring. Never to be forgotten.