And it's almost like a corny movie scene
but I'm out of frame and the lighting's bad
and the music has no theme.
And we're all so strong when nothing's wrong
and the world is at our feet.
But how small we are when our love is far away
and all you need is you.
(K's Choice, 20,000 Seconds)
Say, something happens. The way ordinary things happen in an ordinary day. Something inconsequential, something irrelevant. You are sitting outside with a friend, on the sidewalk maybe. Not talking; just watching kids at play under the afternoon sun. A car drives by, the children move to the side for a while, barely registering a break from their banter, as if a giant hand pushed them all at once to one side of the road, then are released. You look at the kids, both you and your friend, and they resume their playing in the middle of the street.
It was quiet, relatively, until you hear a low thrumming coming from above and behind. A helicopter, you thought, confirming even without looking up. The approach became louder, more imposing, and becomes more like a jackhammer in the sky than anything else, really. You and your friend look up, and a few seconds after, the violent insistence faded into a low thrum once again. Both of you are still looking up, though, and you feel like you want to say something. "Well that was unexpected," was what you could have said. Or maybe, "Huh. Been a while since one of those passed by." But for some reason, you chose to remain quiet. The silence stretched on, yet both of you were still looking up. The words were scratching at your throat, but the silence has stretched past a point where anything said would have sounded awkward. Late. Inconsequential.
Hence the month-long silence. Things happened, as if insignificant, inconsequential -- the death of an aunt, my sister's marriage, the days and days spent getting drunk with friends -- and for me it seemed enough that they happened. It has been becoming easier and easier for me to let things go and let things through. I wade into a river, and I neither oppose its flow, nor do I follow it. I stay in the center and let the water flow through me, cleansing me one moment and soiling me the next, never caring either way. This calm, this surrender, has been the closest thing to peace I have experienced.
I think it was a low thrumming at first, when I heard it coming. It wasn't long before it turned into something louder, however. Something imposing. A violent insistence. A jackhammer in the sky, maybe. A persistent knocking. A mobile phone ringing. "I'm here at St. Clare's with your sister and her husband. Can you call up Loyola Memorial and ask them how much it would cost to cremate a fetus?" I got up from the bed, my eyes thick with sleep, but my mind quickly sharpening to a dagger point. "OK, I'll call back," I managed to say.
A couple of hours after, I was with my mother, entering the hospital room where my sister was confined. They were still waiting, her husband said, for the baby to move further down before extracting it completely. It wasn't a miscarriage. The water bag broke and the five-month old fetus needed to be aborted. I held my sister's hand. "We saw him smiling yesterday, me and mother, during my ultrasound. He smiled and he yawned and he was so healthy," she said. I couldn't say anything back. "You're young and strong," was what I could have said. Or maybe, "We all did our best. We're here for you." But the silence stretched on and past the point where anything said would have sounded awkward. Late. Inconsequential.
The pounding is still there. The violence, silent as it is, has never been more oppressive, and something needs to be said. That baby has been a hope for me. His birth has been a beacon, his squalling as he leaves the comfort of my sister's warmth a sonar for the beginning of rest of my life. I told myself things are going to change when I become an uncle. Things happen, though -- a car passes through, a helicopter appears out of nowhere, a baby dies -- but life goes on despite the silence, and my river will flow, cleansing and soiling, leaving moments lost in its wake.
