August 2021

Life is a strange phenomenon. Almost eight billion people are living on this planet; eight billion bodies, eight billion minds, eight billion stories often hidden behind fake smiles. Eight billion…suddenly thrown into this game called life. Oh! Don’t worry; this won’t be a story about the miracle of birth, nor will it be a sonnet about the meaning of life. 

No, these thoughts come to my mind while my eyes linger on the dark mahogany coffin in front of me. It lies on top of two trestles hidden under a pearl white tablecloth and even the beautiful bouquet of white lilies and colorful dahlias sitting on top of the lid can’t hide that, in many cases, life is given to you as sudden as it is taken from you. From the coffin to the flowers to the grey-haired priest speaking in front of the mourning crowd, everything has been carefully chosen by the broken young man sitting right next to me. His dark hair was neatly styled when I picked him up this morning, but now after hours of constantly running his hands through it, it is a single mess. 

Yeah, I think while taking Josh’s trembling hand in mine, life is a strange phenomenon. And it doesn’t give a damn about who is left behind. 

The priest, a proud man in his late sixties dressed not in a conservative robe but a formal black suit, speaks to the crowd of people sitting in front of the grave with a comforting voice. What he says? I have no idea; for most of the time, my thoughts have been traveling back to the moments of happiness in my own life, and to the moments of pain. And no matter how hard I try I can’t prevent them from bringing up an image that is both: Happiness and pain. It’s the image of a boy with silver eyes and a bright smile calling my name; telling me he loves me. But whenever a breeze of the warm summer winds caresses my pale skin, I return to the now. 

Not the warm August wind, nor the birds flying over the majestic crowns of the green leaf trees made Josh decide to hold the ceremony outside. No, my best friend wanted to give his grandma the chance to be there when her husband comes to lie beside her. At least symbolically. 

“Edith Parker,” I quietly recite the words already engraved in the black marble stone. I never met the kind-hearted poet, but I know that she was more like a mother than a grandma to Josh, who lost his parents at an early age. 

“Memories define who we are,” the priest’s low and calming voice finally reaches my ears, and I begin to regret that I haven’t listened to his words sooner when he recites one of the many lines written by Charles Parker, better known as C. C. Starling. “So, let our memories of today define the people we’re going to be tomorrow.” The priest puts his speech cards down when he decides to stray from the words that are written on them. “The memories of his beloved wife, Edith, shaped the Charles we all knew and loved. They made him survive her loss and fight for the grandson they both brought up together. Now they are reunited in heaven, watching over us. Death couldn’t do their love apart, so let our love for Charles keep him alive, too. In our memories, in our lives, in our future.”

Love. 

With the hand that is not being crushed in Josh’s death-grip, I rub over the burning spot on my chest. It’s an unconscious movement, useless for it cannot eradicate the pain inside my heart; but it is not unfamiliar. If life is a strange phenomenon, then love - at least to me - is even stranger. Eleven years ago, I lost my heart to that silver-eyed boy I keep on thinking about and have been living with a dark hole inside my chest for just as long. Our love was unexpected, fast, and we crashed against a wall called reality before we really began. I know that losing Clay back then was different from Charles losing Edith, or from Josh losing Charles but it seems that my memory refuses to make a difference. 

The moment when the priest steps aside and turns towards the deep hole into which Charles’s coffin will be lowered soon, Josh squeezes my hand and mutters with tear-struck voice: “Cancer is a bitch.” Josh’s chocolate eyes are swollen, his running nose red from the numerous times he’s had to use his handkerchief, his usually tanned face has lost all its color. But no matter how hard it must be, Josh still gets up from his seat to claim the place among five other strong men, ready to lower Charles into the ground. 

As if to join us in our sorrow, the sun hides behind the cover of a large grey cloud, shadowing the freshly cut grass below our feet. It doesn’t take long until I feel the touch of the first drop of rain on my cheek. Except for the occasional opening of an umbrella, the crowd doesn’t move when the droplets become a shower. We wait until the six men step away from the grave after fulfilling their task. 

When the other guests line up to offer Josh their condolences, I voluntarily take the spot at the end of the queue. I don’t care if my clothes get wet. Compared to some of the designer attire and expensive shoes I’ve seen some of the other guests wear, my plain black suit is nothing special and the only thing I would have to worry about is safely secured inside my old grey crossbody bag.

While waiting for my turn to step up to Josh so he can finally drop the act, I can’t help but catch the words from the conversation of the two women in front of me. 

“It’s a shame he never decided to marry again, isn’t it?”, sighs one of them.

 “A shame, indeed,” agrees her friend and when I snort in disgust, her blue-eyed gaze meets mine. 

Sh*t. I freeze as I feel that she might want to talk to me. 

Which she does. “Did you know him well?” 

I gulp, pushing back the introvert’s panic. “K…kinda. I used to be Josh’s roommate, so…”

“You!” I wince when the other woman points at me with her painted red nails. Some of the people in front of us turn around at the sudden outcry that is not fit for the respectful silence of a funeral but let it go as soon as they realize that there is nothing for them to see. The red-haired woman grabs my arm. “You’re that kid!”

I blink. “Pardon?”

“The kid from that cute little blog Charles kept on talking about!” 

“Yes!” The other woman agrees with curiosity in her eyes. “I knew I’ve seen your face before! Ken…Kenji something, right?”

I’m not sure what surprises me more: that they call a twenty-eight-year-old guy ‘kid’ or that they know about ‘my cute little blog.’ It’s nothing big; just a way to write about the novels I love and distract me from my everyday life of running my grandparents’ business. 

Nervously nodding my head, I confirm their assumption. “Kenji Ishikawa, nice to meet you.”

“I loved your review about gay classics!”, says Mrs. Blue-Eyes. “I went and bought Giovanni’s Room right away!” 

Smiling widely with a face that must be as red as a tomato by now, I thank her. 

“Your stories aren’t too bad either,” admits the redhead and looks back to where the crowd narrows at the grave. “Ever thought about becoming a writer like Charles?” 

I decline. 

“Well, you should.” Mrs. Redhead looks back at me. “Though, you need to work on your plot lines. Seriously.”

Her friend snorts. “You mean that cute little story with the soccer captain?” 

I freeze and suddenly my heart begins to run a marathon. 

“Yeah,” Mrs. Redhead nods accordingly, oblivious to my growing discomfort. “I mean it’s a nice Cinderella-story-kinda-thing, but – c’mon – a popular high school kid would never ever fall in love with a nerd like Misaki!” 

My eyes fall to the ground. “Yeah…I guess.”

“And the ending!”, she goes on, not knowing that every word hurts she says about my ‘cute little story’, or – as I prefer to call it – my past; hidden behind a fake city and fake names. “I mean, open endings are nice and all, but…did Cam become a soccer star or not?” 

“He did,” I whisper, still looking at the wet grass. Yes, Clay became a soccer star. First as a striker in Stanford’s college team, then as the most popular rookie the Portland Timbers have ever seen. And now, I think while rain is falling on my shoulders as my tears are dripping on the ground, there are rumors that his career will finally lead him to Europe. 

With that, our conversation ends. Whether it is due to their lack of interest in talking to the introvert blogger, or because they realized I’ve started crying, I don’t know; and I don’t care. Unconsciously they opened a wound that now adds up to losing the man whose words became my anchor in times of loneliness. 

When the time comes for the women to offer their condolences, my gaze searches for Josh’s. He doesn’t even try to smile; he just nods, knowing that I’m here if he needs me. I pass the three of them and the grass below my feet makes a squishy sound when I kneel next to the pile of dirt on the fresh grave. With trembling fingers, I touch the velvet petals of a lily in one of the many flower bouquets. “Hi, Charles.” 

Of course, he doesn’t reply, but when the wind runs its damp fingers through my black hair, I imagine that he’s returning my greeting with a smile. I keep quiet for a moment; wondering about the future, remembering the past, and only when the rain stops falling, I decide it’s time. 

My fingers are trembling for a different reason than the wind when I unclasp the lid on my leather bag. I reach inside and when I take it out, the snow-white book feels heavy in my hands not because it holds 800 pages of one of Charles’s masterpieces, but for the memories it carries. Just as I did before with the petals, I caress the cover with tears in my eyes. 

One last time.

For eleven years, this novel has been by my side, torturing me with memories of my first love. Never would a popular high school kid fall in love with a nerd, she’s said. 

But he did. 

And I fell for him. 

Kneeling here now, on rain-drenched grass at Charles grave in 2021, it is somewhat hard to process that everything…began with this book.