The Words That Got Away

Now That We Don’t Talk

I once bit an ear off of my first stuffed animal.

Worst yet, it was Mickey Mouse, an emblem of childish innocence and happiness. It was a laughably morbid sight as he continued to smile at me, despite white fluff sprouting from his missing ear. Mickey eventually went missing among the moving boxes, but stuffed animals still lined the top of my dresser. Over the years, they’ve become less of a toy and more a keeper of my memories.

But some memories aren’t meant to be remembered.

I pulled a bear off of the highest shelf, shaking away the dust that had amassed atop his cream-orange head. If I tilted his face just right under the lamp, he would smile at me—a soft closed-lip smile that held many broken promises.

My earliest memories were filled with gilded peals of laughter. I was three, going on four, and enveloped by the glee of the holiday season. Or maybe it was the post-sugar rush excitement of snack time. Either way, there was a buzz of anticipation bubbling inside me. The screams of the other kids became a white noise as I zeroed in on a Christmas tree, where a shadowed figure hid conspicuously behind the tendrils of branches. A man poked his head out, the shape of his eyes and nose matched my own.

“Father!” I shouted, running toward his now-squatted figure with open arms. I was elated that he’d picked me up from daycare, instead of my mom’s usual presence. In a way, contentment follows the heart of a three-year-old unaffected by the truth. Amid my happiness, I forgot the true source of my joy. It wasn’t seeing my father that split open a grin on my face. Rather, it was a flood of relief knowing that he kept his promise—knowing that he finally showed up.

I can count on one hand the amount of birthday gifts I’ve gotten from my father. The bear was one of them. It soothed me to sleep during many rainy nights—nights that often reminded me of the stark change in my environment.

I often lie and say I don’t remember the years of my youth. There’s some truth to that, but a white lie nonetheless. I don’t remember the move or the friends that I left behind. I don’t remember the walls of the old bedroom or the color of the kitchen cabinets. But I do remember the look on Mom’s face and the sleepless nights that no five-year-old should face.

I do remember that when I did finally closed my eyes, the bear was the one I was hugging to sleep. He holds a smaller one in his arms, which my father always said represented me—it represented us. Maybe I wasn’t the only person lying.

Because I can’t help thinking:

When was the last time we talked?

When was our last goodbye?

It’s Nice to Have a Friend

Everybody has a theme song—a song that captures the melody of their character better than words can. With my best friend, I have thousands of songs, fitting on a record that never stops spinning on the turntable. But amidst that list, a line of lyric epitomizes us.

“It’s rare to find a friend like you.”

As I watched Barbie sing the opening lyrics of the song with her best friend as a nine-year-old, the notion that there’s a person out there who can never fail to make me laugh didn’t seem to click. The words didn’t seem to sink in. 

Until it did. 

We were both fourteen when we walked through the same double doors to our first period—World Geography. I had no clue who she was, and she had no familiar face to greet her at this foreign school. I wish I had said, “Hi.” 

We were both fifteen when I realized we were on the same bus. I don’t remember what prompted me to sit down next to her. Maybe it was a lack of empty seats, or my desperate need to get away from the rowdy fifth graders. But I do remember why I came back the next day…and the next day…and the next day…

“Somehow when you’re around

The sky is always blue”

We were both sixteen when we drove to school on the first day, the sky an endless field of blue. That was the day blue became my second favorite color. It wasn’t the pigmented azure blue used to color the ocean on a map, nor the aquamarine blue that shimmers from my birthstone. It’s simply just sky blue (hex code #87ceeb to be exact). Because when the sky is bright, stretching for miles uninterrupted by clouds, I’m happy. When I’m with her, even if the blocked sun darkens the day or sleet covers the blacktop road, the sky is still blue. I am still laughing. 

We are both seventeen when I sense the ticking time bomb that’s about to detonate. It’s counting down the days until we graduate—until we go our separate ways. I’m not a stranger to goodbyes, but I don’t want to greet it as a close friend, either. Our dreams will take us beyond the reality of our youth, and a part of me is scared to trek down that path. Every part of me is scared to say goodbye. 

We will both be eighteen when we walk beyond those double doors. Our shoulders will be lighter, knowing the fruits of our labor, knowing where we will go. It’s strange—I’ve been waiting for this number my whole life. But standing on this precipice right now, I’m terrified to jump.

Because I can’t help thinking:

When will we say our last goodbye?

It’s Time To Go

If I shut my eyes tight enough, I can smell the aroma of the canh chua my grandmother has simmering over the stove, or the rhythmic sound of my aunt’s rapid chopping of garlic to throw into the sizzling skillet. Growing up, the sound of cooking was my background music as I was left to entertain myself, alone.

But I was never truly lonely.

My family was a constant presence. I could often find my grandmother watching her shows in the living room. My cousin was a door away, studying for his exams. They wove in and out of my life, existing as an extended limb of my being.

Never once did I think that limb would be ripped away.

The plane that took me thousands of miles away brought me to a new life, to a new home, to new friends. But in the years since then, the daily interactions I craved dwindled as the time zone became a wider gulf than the ocean separating us.

Within those years, my cousins grew up. They matured beyond the teenage boys who blackmailed me out of my favorite candy, and went to college without me being there to witness it. They taught me how to recite my ABCs. They were there for every fall as I learned how to ride a bike. Soon, my cousins won’t be there to witness my own graduation.

Within those years, my baby cousin turned six. I used to be the youngest in the family, which came with the perks of blaming my mistakes on my older cousins. But her addition to the family made me excited to have someone who would resemble my “little sister”. I wanted to hold her, to play dolls with her, to be that older sister I had always wanted as a little girl. But she’s no longer a toddler. I have missed six years of her life, which had passed as I watched from the sideline of my phone. 

The last time I hugged my grandmother was seven years ago. Dusk had settled into the black cloak of the night as I hugged each of my family members goodbye. My grandmother tucked me close, the familiar scent of her cinnamon essential oil enveloped my nose as I buried my face into her neck.

“It’s time to go,” my mother whispered, her voice hoarse from her own tears. I shook my head, not wanting to let go. My aunt slowly pried me away and gently pushed me toward the glass door that would lead us toward our flight terminal. I turned back, looking at the family who had raised me.

All the while thinking:

Please don’t let this be our last goodbye.

Featured Image: “Moonglow aka Tangerine the limited edition Teddy Bear” by JimmyMac210 – just returned home from hospital is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.