BIGGER FISH
“They say seasons bring changes,
and changes bring growth.
But my shoes fit just right
and I don’t want another coat.”
–Bigger Fish
by Odie Leigh
“For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.”
–I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
by William Wordsworth
We started the trip in Portsmouth,
Star and I,
from 1000 Market street.
I’ve seen far worse hotels,
but I’ve also seen far better.
It was 14 hours to Maryland.
Traffic was heavy where the tri-states meet on 95, and it was standstill across the Hudson. There was a war on the George Washington, between Manhattan and Fort Lee, a war of wind. Through smoke and fog and sludge, New York threw cigarettes, and Jersey, bog mud and manure. Car horns sounded through the open windows, brake wails and train lines. But Tyler Childers was playing, and we laughed above the noise.
Why would anyone want to be here?
Hand out the Elantra window,
Sunglasses facing the sunroof,
“Gosh, we’re just so lucky!”
South towards the White Plains,
and a pit stop in Ocean City.
Daffodils trailed our tires.
A member of the amaryllis plant family, a daffodil is a spring perennial. This designation indicates that the same plant can survive multiple growing seasons. Native to Europe and slowly overwhelming North America, its first mention is Greek. The Story of Echo and Narcissus; a hunter who fell in love with his own reflection. He dies alone by the riverside, never escaping his own gaze. From his decaying body, Daffodils grow. It is the national flower of Wales, a symbol of rebirth, new beginnings; growth.
And it is Star’s favorite flower.
A year ago, she had apologized.
And I did too.
April 4, 2024 12:36 am
“I miss you a lot. I figured it was about time we talked, I’ve been thinking about what happened, just thinking about you in general… there was never a second that I didn’t care.”
She had always been tough and proud; headstrong and guarded and forever resistant to taking her medication. She said it was hard to talk about feelings and even harder to admit fault. And even though we often fell short of agreement, I couldn’t argue with that.
It was a new beginning; growth.
“We’re so lucky,” I agreed.
Through toll lanes,
farmland,
and Delaware.
Wen was waiting.
She lived her new life in College Park, across from the Metro and atop the Shake Shack. It was beside campus, but off it. Wen would come home exhausted of computer screens and code script, wires and batteries. Her world was so much different than mine. And we always knew that. Wen, Star and I; we were perpendicular, not parallel.
An electrical engineer in the country’s capital,
a teacher’s aide in a beach town,
an aspiring poet in the mountains.
“If we met now,” we joked, “we’d never be friends.”
But we wouldn’t have met now.
Careers and counties apart,
road signs and reputation,
studies and stature.
No,
we wouldn’t have met now.
There is another folktale about daffodils; The Legend of the Chinese Lily. The story begins with an old farmer giving land to his two sons. The oldest takes the most fertile plots, leaving his brother with just rock and water. Deflated and discouraged, the youngest son is greeted by a fairy bearing gifts; three daffodil bulbs. The resilient sprouts thrive in the damp, rocky terrain, and the flowers become popular among neighbors. It is said that the youngest son profited greatly off his first harvest, though he remained a humble farmer through his success.
The older brother sees this achievement, and promptly attempts to grow his own daffodils. But his land, perfectly tilled, raked and weeded, is not damp enough and the crop dies. The Legend is one of human nature, highlighting the insatiable greed within man. But it also conveys a message of growth; that one can still flourish in an imperfect plot, a plot of rock and water.
“Right plant, right place.” the legend reads.
It was dark when we arrived at the Washington-Reagan National Airport in DC. Wen was waiting with a checked bag and carry on.
We fought the next day, Wen and I.
We fought for the first time in 12 years.
We fought over towels and blankets, phone calls and unreceived texts. We fought about the problems we had tried to solve alone, the problems that hurt to admit out loud.
“Things are bad again, and I’m so frustrated and irritated all the time. It’s like, I’ve already dealt with this, it should be over. But it doesn’t matter how many times I deal with it; it’s never gone, and it never will be.”
They listened while I cried.
And they cried too.
“I just always feel so guilty. I have all the help anyone could need, and I’m still just so sad.”
I think they already knew.
Star never cried,
but she was crying now.
“You know how I always say the ‘lucky’ thing? And it’s kind of stupid, but it’s true.” Crossed legged in a Maryland apartment complex, with the first few beams of spring glazing the windows behind, Star had never been so serious. We rambled, in the way sentimental girls do, deprived of familiar company, of home.
“We’re just are so lucky.”
Star continued.
“We’re lucky that we didn’t talk for a year, because some people don’t talk for much longer than that. Some people don’t talk ever again… We’re lucky that car hit me, that school didn’t work out right then because I think I needed to get worse to get better, I think I needed something different.”
“We’re lucky that New York smells like shit, that the weather was awful last night and Wen’s flight was delayed. We’re lucky the toll was $17 in New Jersey, and I’m not even sure why yet, but I assume it all could have been worse. ”
“We’re lucky that we fight, that we love each other enough to care, that we’re crying in this apartment like babies…”
“…And we’re lucky that we’re here, together. We’re lucky that we’re alive.
Because, we didn’t always want to be.”
Yes,
we were lucky.