We are not the illusion. Hidden from view, deep in childhood, the night comes with crickets, picnics are set nearby the river, a brick home stands proud in the countryside. When I utter brother, mother, father, I expect to feel them even in the distance, able to pull them closer with a simple wish. But what I got is the awkward, the alien in its own country, many a contradiction of terms.
I used to believe, but had to stop. That story got told for many childhoods, until it spread so thin it tore.
I longed for people so true, I’d laugh remembering their quirks. Our inner strength would’ve been built steadily around a bustling dinner table, under umbrella glass blown lamps. Our tribe’s vacations captured at the beach, in pastel polaroids. Faithful smiles for the family album, and nobody ever absent.
I believed until I stopped. What I got were strange angles, twisted smiles, closed eyes, and weak stances.
Imagine a full van, its passengers not needing to rush or arrive in haste. Light presences enjoying the view, and the kids complain, ¿are we almost there? Mature adults assure them we’ll get there soon, hey, let’s play a new game! A cozy quilt of predictable patterns laid on the back seat. Somehow, the patchwork and the array of colors just go.
I believed in it, but not anymore. Now it sounds more like a crash echoing another, unexplained anxiety, contained chaos. Someone never fully decided, never wholeheartedly believed, and still pretended to be there.
I wanted softly ondulating memories guggling in a lazy river, on its way to a larger body of water, and finally the sea. Chapters that made sense in themselves, not needing much explanation. I yearned for a narrative easier to convey, that my words didn’t take up so much space and time.
I wanted to keep the belief but gave up. It never was the illusion, and I shan’t go back to entertain it, even though it pleads and begs for my young girl’s eyes.
These days, I only want freedom from the story that never was.