Somewhere Only We Know

Shoulders hunched, leafing through battered Goodwill frames like tattered dockets in a card catalog, I felt my phone pulse inside my jacket pocket.

Hours before, I’d checked my bank account and realized my full security deposit from Gay Gardens had been refunded; a very minor financial cushion was beginning to build: my plan had actually gone accordingly.

Ever since, I’d been sinking into a welcomed sense of relief.

And then I looked at my phone, the push notification from news sources reading simply: “US, UK, and France launch missiles at Syrian chemical weapons depots.” My stomach dropped; the color drained from my face.

This is exactly what he wants.

That’s all I could think; and the most tragic part was that there are so many “he’s” to whom I referred.

The Cold War has resumed, but this time there’s so much more at stake—so many terrifying buttons that could be pushed, orders to be issued, infuriatingly childlike tweets inciting chaos.

The same feeling I felt in November 2016 hung over me: overwhelming dread underlain by a suffocating tightness, a sense of imminent disaster.

A desire to flee.

It’s always in these moments when my animal self takes over—the sheer will to survive overpowering every other emotion, the need for further questions blunted. Answers cascade like water through a ruptured dam, swirling fitfully in my mind: a maelstrom of emotion. But eventually, through bouts of clarity, I emerge and move—push onward. Because I must.

Outside, rain poured down, drenching my coat as I folded myself into the car. Moments later, I pulled into a drug store, got batteries and a flashlight, and withdrew cash.

I stared at the assortment of items strewn across the passenger seat—the crumpled bills peeking out from beneath the rumpled receipt. Anger boiled out of me.

We are always fighting. Because life is a fight no one ever wins; some get to dance around the ring more untouched than others—whose bodies bear the brunt of landed blows. 

I started the car and eased into the driving rain.

***

Weeks later, sun beamed down, and animated conversations filled the street—the air brisk, tinged with the salty smell of sweat. A friend and I made our way to a meeting, taking a scenic route to soak in more of the welcomed light.

Ahead of us, just beneath an overhang, an older man stood hunched over a walker, his pants hanging down to his knees. A medical discharge bracelet dangled from his shaking arm. He was alone, disoriented—a flood of people skirting around him, choosing not to see.  

As we approached, a suit-clad man sidled up to him, shielding his backside, and said lowly, “Sir, your pants have slipped down.” Apologies poured out of the man’s chapped, cracked lips as he groped his weathered jeans up and over his cheeks. I stood uselessly, holding his walker—his only anchor. A few moments later, he moved on, slowly ambling uphill, his pants visibly loosening with every labored step. 

As we descended the stairs to the light rail, I attempted to refer back to the conversation we’d been having before, but faltered. Anger clouded everything.

***

Later, from my hilltop perch, I could barely make out the brick spire of a nearby church, the bells clanging for an unknown celebration. A piercingly blue sky loomed above, the wind blasting my face—carrying laughter up from some unseen conversation below, the gaiety of it beckoning me downslope.

JoJo’s collar clinked in the wind, and I looked down as she shoved her nose in the freshly mowed grass. I exhaled, and she looked up—sensing an opportunity to play. She skittered frenetically, zigging around as I twirled her leash, before coming to a gradual stop in another pile of grass clippings. I smiled down at her, and took another breath.

Whenever the faintest light shines through, we must bask in it, cherish it, and will it to fuel us through the coming days. Because it’s our fortitude, our sheer tenacity, that lives on through the inspiration we spark in others.

***

The apartment was quiet, the sun nearly set. Around me, lamplight blanketed bloated, neon tendrils—the air heavy with the scent of peppery geraniums.

Real life—woven together through pain, sorrow, joy, and promise—surrounds us: its tumultuous clatter reverberating in our bones, chilling us cold. But rather than face it, we so often race for shelter: retreating to the far corners of our minds in a dissociative rush—somewhere only we know.

I leveled my tired eyes at the distant snow-capped mountains, a lavender haze curling around them, as I felt time—weightless, motionless, formless—pass quietly in the night.