Obi's Wave

My grandmother used to say “life is like the ocean” and leave it to us to decipher that proverb. My mother always told me that it meant we could drift with the currents instead of risking the waves, but I disagree. I’ve always thought that the tides were the epitome of deception. No matter what you choose to do, your skin will end up wrinkled and the waves will smother you in the end.

It was a brisk winter’s morning with sunlight streaming through branches clad in frost and the earliest strands of Christmas lights. The final leaves of autumn rocked through the air like paper boats on their way to kiss the dew sprinkled grass. I sat on an algae coated concrete wall above a stretch of dirty sand, watching two seagulls fight over a fish. The torturous sounds coming from their black, chipped beaks ricocheted across the water. I remembered similar sounds coming from my father when he first heard about Obi. 

The phantom scenes flickered through my fragmented memories. I saw my mother stroking Obi’s hand; as limp and as pale as a damp paper towel. My father had found him under the footbridge that crossed the river, pinned against a metal grate as if thrown there by the seemingly benign waves. Eleven and a half years of boy was already a sodden doll in my father’s quaking arms. We went back to our little house, identical to all the others on the street, and moved on like nothing ever happened. But I knew I would never forget. Not because I missed Obi, no. I had hated Obi. But because I had killed him. 

The week before Obi’s death he had beaten me in a middle school spelling bee. I had stuttered through "aqueduct", the butterflies in my stomach mixing up the "u" and "e", while he took home the championship on "asphyxiate". Something I could only appreciate the irony of after his death. The week before that he had beaten me in a math competition. I remember the smug look on his young face as he hit the buzzer minutes before I even solved the problem. I couldn't help but internally accuse him of cheating, even though I logically knew that was not the case. Obi was three years younger than I, but already twice, no three times, as good as I was at everything.

Every night before I went to bed, my parents would come into my room to say goodnight. They would give me a loose hug and sometimes a slobbery kiss, turn off the lights, and leave. I would lay there craving the physical affection all children seek from their parents. I wanted my mother to lay down beside me and tell me stories of her youth. I wanted to hear the story of her first kiss that I would undoubtedly find disgusting and then beg to be told again. And I would have fawned over the story of how she met my father, as both my parents took turns interrupting each other with their own ideas and interpretations of the events. And I wanted my father to hold me down and tickle me until I cried with laughter. Something I heard my Obi complain about, but never had experienced myself. Instead, I would listen to them praise Obi. I could imagine them holding his hand and poking him in the side as they joked around. Physical jabs to emphasize the gentle sarcasm they used to show their love. He was their golden child. 

The day I decided to do it, the idea had already been germinating in my mind for weeks. I was sitting on the edge of the river skipping stones across the placid water, watching Obi try to balance on one foot. He stood on the wall wobbling on the very tips of his toes with an obnoxious smile on his face. A little boy living the life all little boys long to live. It only took one little push for him to go toppling into the roaring stream. Only one little push to fix my quickly diminishing self-esteem. He screamed my name as he clawed at the surface, but I only stood up and went home. 

My parents searched for hours until their cries grew hoarse. The sound of the crickets that was usually so comforting sounded threatening. They knew what I had done. I hid in my room, pretending to wallow in grief. Instead I wrote a confession so that I could erase the crime from my memories without it being lost in time. Fear that my writing would be discovered prompted me to stow it amongst old clothes and books in the attic.

The next day his waterlogged body was found. Paper towel skin and colorless eyes. He had a strand of seaweed wound through his hair. I was angry that the river had given him a gift even in his death. That was Obi though. Always bringing out the best in life.

I attended the funeral. I counted hundreds of teardrops trailing down the faces of friends and family. I even snuck a glance at the body my parents were dutifully trying to shield me from. From a distance he could have been sleeping, but once you were closer, there was no mistaking the truth. I couldn't help but feel a sense of pride. I had done that. It was due to me that everyone had gathered inside this little cathedral on a hot, sticky evening to cry together and share stories of their pasts.

It was the eve of my college departure when the attic was finally cleared out. The attire with its low rafters and slanted walls was made all the smaller by heaps of dusty boxes and garbage bags. I liked to think of it as a deathbed for childhood treasures to quietly rot amongst the cobwebs until their sentimental value had waned. Nobody expected to discover anything life-altering in that las box. It was only fitting that I was the first to hear my father’s wails when the cardboard was cut, the child-sized clothes removed and the yellowed notebook paper with my cramped writing unearthed. How they wished I had simply let the tides take me instead of attempting to make my own waves.