THE NARRATIVE ARC
No One Really Tells Us How Precious and Ephemeral a Human Life Is
Doesn’t take much, and nothing is ever the same again
He was small for six. Tiny wisp of a boy made of whispers and bones save for the heavy coke bottle glasses that left angry red marks both sides of his little nose. One day he says he’s getting surgery so he can see better and the way his voice lilts up at the end of every sentence makes me smile.
In my mind he’s a sprite, a magical little thing that belongs in some book with dragons and fairies that flit and laugh, light up the forest at night. The way he stands inches away to see me, holds a book up to his nose so he can read it only adds to his feather-haired pixie charm.
He comes back to school with a white cane, his mommy walking behind, one hand perched like a small bird, ever so light on his shoulder.
My eyes dart from his cane to her hand, and up to her eyes, watch her face crumple and we’re high school best friends again, seeking comfort in each other’s eyes but there’s no comfort to be had. Holding her eyes with mine, I remember how she bounced into mama’s house, plopped on my bed and wonder if we’ll ever be that carefree again. But I know. We never will.
