We laugh together. There’s a rhythm playing in the room:
a beat of silence, a sudden drumming of keys, a melody
of conversation, then a harmony of laughter. It becomes
comforting ambient noise, and it’s helping me write. But even
when I know what I want to say, I’m having trouble expressing
it well for the talk.
“I’m worried, Lizzie.” My hands rest at the keyboard. “I’m
nervous. I’ve never given a speech before.” The familiar
feeling of fear seeps into my body. “And I have no idea if
people will care, or if anyone will even listen.” Doubt creeps
in, and my hands shake again.
“Hey.” She nudges my shoulder. “Hey.”
I look up at her.
“You’re not just writing for them. This is for you, too.”
Deep breath in. I’m hesitant. “But what if they still don’t
care?”
Lizzie smiles at me. “Well, I do.”
There’s a moment of pure comfort that our eyes exchange. We
don’t need to say much, but I feel reassured. I’m determined
to finish.
Deep breath out. I begin to type.
****
“An important aspect of family is giving the same love, trust,
and respect that you receive. People’s words, care, and love are
not consumable items; they’re real forces that can shape us.”
I wanted to share what family meant.
“I am better off with every experience I’ve had, both good and
bad, thanks to those that share in my struggle and my joy.”
But this speech was also for me. I wanted to tell people about
26 Fall 2019
the type of person I’ve become.
“I’ve learned that the world will challenge me in many ways.
That is the way of life: peaks and valleys. But family, especially
the one I’ve forged, eases that burden. When there’s a lot on
my mind and not enough space to hold it all, family provides
comforting and tender relief.”
I hope people can tell how much I’ve grown. OK, not
physically—I’m still pretty short, but…
I should include that joke in another speech. Maybe she’ll
think it’s good, too. I should run it by her.
****
March 28
Dear Lizzie,
Before I left, I wrote you something. It is a letter of love. This
is not because I want someone. No, love is different.
It had only been a semester, but I couldn’t wait to come home.
I pulled up to the parking lot as the street lights switched on.
I leapt out of the door, and I ran out of my car to see you. I
smiled. And then I cried. And somehow, that was joy.
I have to tell you that I can’t even remember which moment
was the last one we spent together. All the experiences we
shared have crashed into one. Whenever that kind of joy
comes now, only one moment returns and steals my thoughts.
Taunting me, it makes the emptiness more evident and the joy
more painfully ironic.
It is always this moment.
I am still young, but I am experienced. I walk past the gates.
I trudge through the grass. And then I stop. I leave a flower.
I try to pray, but I can’t remember how. I look down at my
hands and notice they are shaking.