Gone Clear Over [Frumtum]

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What kind of world has you living just for the moment?

I grew up with my mother, trudging between districts and barely having a pair of shoes to fit my overgrowing feet. You know how hard it is to climb over hills or push through rivers when your shoes are a size too small? Now imagine walking between five and eleven—you’d want to be barefoot, too. Surprised things weren’t worse, looking back now. There was a thousand ways to die out there, and somehow she kept me safe. Warm fires most nights, little bits of fruit and even meat now and again. That was being a child, just living for that single moment. Hard to think about much else when all there is, is to survive. My mother was proud enough that I kept up with her, and didn’t slow her down too much. And for me it was better just knowing she was happy than for me to find what was supposed to make me happy.

I pushed it down, under the grass between my toes. That was safer, didn’t distract me from the long walks we had, for the fish I was supposed to catch. Kept me safe when we heard the whistle of a peacekeeper, or the growl of a dog. Just make her happy, because then I didn’t have to think about anything else. Live for another person, you’ve got it made. We were happy most of the time, even if we didn’t have much. She would tell me the stories of our traveling tribe, the people who had come before me. She said that they’d all been great men and women who left the districts to find a new life. We weren’t bothered because we were such good wanderers; she’d say that and then say it helped that we didn’t want to be found.

When you get older, the truth grows with you. Things just aren’t as simple as folk tales about wanderers and giants. Instead you ask who your father is, and you feel sad that he’s not there to see you grow. Or why you never had brothers or sisters—because sharing the world alone is like a half rainbow blocked by the clouds. You know if you could just see the rest, it’d be so much more beautiful. But that’s when you start to realize that all those questions have a way of breaking down happiness; because happiness is fragile. It’s glass blown into shape by our own hearts. And we give it to others to hold, to tell us if it’s pretty, or ugly. Some of them smash it on purpose. Some people drop it on accident. And some steal it from you, because they’ve never had something so beautiful in their own lives.

Maybe it was just growing into the hair under my arms or what was sprouting on my face that had me asking questions all the time. If childhood was being her shadow than the years after that I was praying for darkness so I wouldn’t have to stand behind her. I miss her now, thinking about how much long it’s been. Maybe ten years? It’s hard to count time now. We never got to answer all the questions, I had. At least—she didn’t answer ‘em, I had to find them. I had to go out and look for my own happiness, since she squirreled it away in favor of her own. Dying has a way of chipping that happiness—you know it’ll never be the same when they go away. Sometimes you look and think, well I’m happy now. But you sit long enough and you know that a part of you can see the crack, or the chip, the part that’s out of place.

Freya’s the one that taught me that happiness is something that we make, not just find.

When you’re really lucky, you find someone else to understand you. Maybe you don’t fit together just right at first. Maybe you might think the way they talk is funny, or that they can’t see your point of view. But good god ten years has a way of making a person close as you can get to your soul without scratching it. That’s the way it’s been, up here along the coast. Fresh ocean air, trees far as the eye can see. Little wooden shacks that still stand, one that we took on as our own when the winter got too bad. Was the first time I remember staying in a place so long, but the winter was so bad and we were getting too tired to go on—not like the days when we could run so far, and sleep out under the stars.

But the winter’s thawed and spring slipped into summer. And the itch is there, but I know it’s not as strong as it used to be. Looking out the window at the beach is a sight to see; the call of the birds wakes us in the mornings. There’s a long path of wood slats that leads along the way, with other little lean-tos and shanties in better or worse shape than our little home. Is that what this is? I think about how she looked out at the ocean just the other night, and we listened to the calm of the world. That’s the way it should be. I can’t remember why we ever thought we should head back to where the world was. Never felt so happy as when I could spend the long hours and short days with her.

And that’s happiness crystalized. Or should I say—joy. The world spinning and singing, lighting up at the sight of her. Knowing that each day we get a little better because of one another. That’s not just happiness, not just a fragile little thing anyone could break. That’s strong, and real, and true. Just makes me wonder whether or not that can last outside of a place like this, a little world that we’ve built to ourselves. I don’t need to have much more than this, but I—I look out at the ocean, through the glass window. I’m standing in our little bedroom, or what was once one. Has a nice little wooden bed frame with a creaky spring mattress. Everything smelled spoiled when we first got here but, a little boiled water and some animal fat soap has a way of cleaning things up.

So I wait for her on the deck, the wood rotted but not entirely gone. I watch the clouds roll along, and I think how lucky we are to be alive, just now.

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