I danced myself out of the womb
I danced myself out of the womb
Is it strange to dance so soon
I danced myself into the tomb
I remember most of my youth in blurs and fragments, but there is one week of August that stands out to me in startling clarity. The pictures and sounds are so clear that I know if I could transfer one memory from my brain to a screen, to be viewed, this one would transfer like a regular film. No evidence that it only came from a memory would remain. That’s the funny thing, isn’t it? Things that seemed insignificant when you were young take on looming sizes as you get older, as if the memory takes on a life of its own and builds itself up around yours.
I was fourteen years old when I broke out of the haze of childhood. There was nothing traumatic that thrust me out, nothing that an outsider would view as an eye opening experience. But that’s what it was. A blow that knocked the wind out of my lungs as quickly as it returned, and I hardly noticed the difference in my own perception of my reality until now. Time and reflection has a funny way of giving things significance.
P.S When I say I broke out of the haze of childhood, I don’t mean I abandoned it. No, sometimes I feel as if I am still a child. I just realized not everyone stayed that way and I entered a world where I was constantly mourning someone else’s loss of themselves. They don’t even notice they’ve separated from that whisper of themselves into a solid mass; definable, restrictive.
Well it’s all right
Love is what she want
Flying saucer take me away
Give me your daughter
August 7th, 1972 – 8:30am (I don’t think I’ve ever been as eager to wake up as early as I had in childhood…kind of sad, isn’t it? Like as you grow older your wish for longer days turns to wishes for longer nights.)
The pedals on my bike felt the full pressure of my weight as I stood, balanced, arms taught below me, gripping onto the handlebars. Loose strands of my red hair whipped my face as the wind of my speed fought against me. I passed the mahogany doors of the town Church, engraved with what I always thought looked like a piece of toast. I crossed into the next neighborhood, darting across the street, and passed the towering oak tree with its heart shaped bark that I longed to touch but was worried about creeping out whoever lived in the house where it stood. I turned swiftly into the familiar driveway of the McAllens. Their lawn, as usual, was pristine besides the few lone dandelions that looked as if they had been run over by Mr. McAllen’s lawnmower. I remember at the time thinking how sad it was to see the dandelions crushed as I went to pluck one, abandoning my bike to softly blow the soft tufts of white into the wind. To kill a dandelion for a wish seemed much more forgivable than running a dandelion over with a lawnmower. Isn’t it?
I walked to the door of the house, knocked three times, and waited, twirling the dandelion stem between my fingertips.
“Liz!” Cynthia grinned as she opened the door, looping the arm not holding a bag through mine as she stepped outside. “Bye!”
The door slammed shut before we could hear her parents’ replies, but that didn’t bother her and it definitely didn’t bother me. Like I said, they were dandelion killers, which is obviously unforgivable. But, more than that, they were the two most uptight people to ever grace Lake County with their presence. Well, I shouldn’t say grace. The only thing they graced Lake County with was Cynthia. She had blonde hair, hazel eyes, the brightest smile, and was the loveliest person I had ever met. This week she would be staying at my place.
My parents, unlike Cynthia’s, were laid back. In fact, they had left town for the week and told me I was welcome to have friends over as long as I was responsible about it. Of course I would be responsible, I had replied, lips quirking up at the sides and fingers drumming at my waist. As soon as they had left, I had called my best friend, and invited her over. This would be a week to remember, I had told her, though, I hadn’t realized how true that would become.
Cynthia sat on the back of my bike as I pedaled her back to my house, like a carriage driver bringing a long lost princess home. We laughed, talking about everything and nothing, our voices and words getting tugged into the wind, blowing our hair awry. We reached my house, a smaller new england styled house painted a baby blue, and threw the bike on the lawn, racing to the porch.
“I win,” I smiled as my hand touched the netting of the screen door first.
“You cheated,” Cynthia said, gasping for breath.
“Did not!”
We grinned at each other. I opened the door, stale, hot August air replacing the freshness of the outside breeze.
“Gross,” I said as I switched on every fan in sight and cracked every window.
We plopped onto the couch, Cynthia swinging her legs over mine.
“What’s in the books for this week,” she asked.
I gave her a sideways smile, “Well…”
“We’re so not-”
“Oh, c’mon-”
“Every single time we’ve tried-”
In our town, there was said to be some sort of treasure hidden deep inside the looming forest off Route 40, and if you followed Clay river, you would find it, you just had to be patient. Well, it wasn’t exactly a confirmed thing, more of a rumor of treasure- Okay, fine, more of a mythological story that there might be treasure in the woods. But, it didn’t matter if the treasure was fake or real or diamonds or bottle caps, all that mattered was that there was a promise of it and I was going to be the one to find something. Ever since I was a kid, my mother had told me stories about how she went looking for it when she was a kid, setting out at dawn with her friends. They planned to stay a few days to look, but fears overcame them at nightfall and they all scurried back home under the light of the moon. Every single kid who had ever grown up in Lake County knew about the treasure. Nobody knew who started the rumor, nobody knew who’s treasure it was, nobody knew if it was real, but every single kid had looked for it at least once in their life. I, in fact, had looked for it multiple times. But this week, I was determined to find it.
“Cynthia, we’ve only ever made it maybe five miles into the forest. I say, we camp out this week, hike as far as we can go-” She started protesting. “It’ll be the last time we ever look, I swear. I mean, can you imagine if we actually find something? I remember when you wanted it as bad as I.”
“That was before I walked through a spider web and found a tarantula in my hair!” Cynthia screeched.
I laughed, “It was so not a tarantula. Please, Cynth. It’ll be fun. We can make nutella sandwiches.”
“Great. Let’s live off nutella sandwiches and spiders for a week. Should be fun.”
I sighed, “Fine. We don’t have to go. We can do something else.”
Cynthia paused at that, eyes narrowed, “Are you playing mind games? Not going to work.”
I rolled my eyes, “I am not. What do you want to do?”
Cynthia paused, lips pursed. She stayed silent for a few seconds.
“Fine. Let’s go look for that stupid treasure.”
My jaw practically bounced off the floor, “I love you forever and ever.”
“Yeah, yeah, let’s start packing so we can get this over with,” she sighed, though I saw the corner of her mouth pulling upwards.
Limp in society’s ditch you are
August 7th, 1972 – 11:00am
We had successfully stuffed our backpacks to the point that when Cynthia put hers on she tumbled backwards and left us laughing for a solid hour.
“Let’s eat something, yeah?” I say as we prop our backpacks by the door in preparation for us to leave.
“Good idea since it seems that we’re going to be living off of chocolate and sandwiches for the next however many days you plan to make me suffer,” Cynth raises an eyebrow at me.
“Oh, come on. I know you’re excited. If you really don’t want to go, just head back home,” I say indignantly, arms crossed.
Looking back, I thought myself a real jerk for saying that. I knew more than anyone what it was like at home for Cynth. Wincing, I mouthed sorry. Like it was too horrible to voice an apology for what we never dared acknowledge in the light of day. She shook her head with a sad smile. We made mac and cheese in silence.
After a few bites, I turned to her, “So. Excited to start high school?”
We were only a few weeks away from freshman year, the fatality of it looming like a storm cloud over our heads.
“I suppose. I’m excited to have somewhere else to be than home, or with you,” she jokingly jabbed her fork at me in between bites.
I grinned, “Well, I am personally very excited to force whoever makes our schedules to put me in all of your classes so I can annoy you to bits. Yup, that’s the plan. An eternity of annoying Cynthia McAllen.”
That actually sounded like a perfect plan to me, and I could tell it was the same for Cynth as she let her hair fall over her face to cover a smile. Once we finished downing an entire family sized mac and cheese, we grabbed our bags, and headed off.
“Luckily it’s not that far of a walk to Route 40.”
Cynthia looked at me sideways, “Uhm, Liz…I’m pretty sure it’s a bit far?”
“Oh.”
You’ve got the universe
Reclining in your hair
August 7th, 1972 – 2:00pm
I collapsed once we reached the forest, my bag carelessly thrown way too close to the highway we had trekked next to for miles and miles. Cynth was leaning against a tree, which I thought was brave considering how much she feared the woods beyond it. I couldn’t blame her in that moment, looking up from where I was heaving, the forest looked pretty menacing. Dark trees shrouded in the shadows they cast upon each other, so tall they could be skyscrapers. (I’d only seen skyscrapers in movies, so this was just an estimation).
“Told you it—,” I choked on a cough. “Told you it wasn’t that far of a walk.”
“Oh, shut up,” Cynthia groaned with a toss of her hair.
I swore, Cynthia had never looked bad a day in her life. Even after a torturous hike, her face only flushed like a nice sunburn, her hair still sitting atop her head like a halo. I, on the other hand, was pretty sure my face was entirely red and sweaty, my hair knotted and astray. I blew a strand of it out of my face before standing back up.
“Ready?” I said with much more courage than I felt, the trees reaching towards us with their branches like knobby fingers.
“Nope,” she said, putting her backpack back on in a stumble.
“Perfect! Let’s go.”
I walked in first, Cynthia just in my peripheral. Oddly, that’s how the rest of my life would feel. No matter how far I got from her, she was always lingering. Like a haze, an oasis, a ghost just outside of my direct vision. Instantly as we entered the forest, the air cooled, became moist, like a damp hand on the back of my neck. I shook the thought away, and looked at Cynthia for reassurance. A beacon in the dark. I wondered if I blended in with the bark of the trees.
“This is quaint,” I murmured, as if speaking loudly would stir something to life.
Cynthia only took my hand, no words were escaping her clenched lips.
“You okay?” I said, starting to feel bad for dragging her on another one of my insane and mildly concerning avocations. “We can turn back if you—”
“No,” she said in her normal tone which sounded like a scream in the muffled silence of the woods. “I think it’ll be fun. Maybe scary, but…we can’t turn back now.”
I nodded with a grin, a sense of pride welling up in me. We continued to walk into the darkness, the smell of pollen and crisp greenery stark.
You’re dirty sweet and you’re my girl
August 7th, 1972 – 3:00
We had been walking for a while in silence, our hands occasionally squeezing each others at any sound or movement, when we finally reached Clay river in all its…clayness. Sighing with relief (I wouldn’t have told Cynthia then, but I had nearly convinced myself we were lost) I kneeled at the bank, splashing my face with the murky water.
“That can’t be good for you,” Cynthia said with a stifled laugh.
“Well, it sure does feel good,” I stuck my tongue out at her.
“You do it for me, I don’t want to reach into the water.”
I looked at her blankly, “You don’t want to reach into the water…but you want the water on your face?”
“Yes.”
“Alright.”
She kneeled next to me, one hand holding her hair back from her face. I cupped the water in my hands and tried as best as I could to softly splash it onto her face, the layer of grime that had settled on us in such a short time lapsing away.
“Mm, that does feel nice,” Cynthia murmured while I cupped more water into my hands, her eyes still softly shut.
I remember blushing, though I had no clue why at the time, the reaction in itself confusing me until I decided to ignore it, as I had been doing subconsciously for years. When we finished, we shrugged our bags back on and began our journey down the river.
“Maybe we should’ve brought a kayak.”
Beneath the bebop moon
I want to croon with you
Beneath the mambo sun
I got to be the one with you
August 7th, 1972 – 7:00pm
Dredging along for hours, our stamina was starting to dwindle.
“I don’t think I can walk another step,” I groaned, leaning against a tree.
Cynthia nodded in assent, too out of breath to say a word.
We decided it best to set up camp right there, however many miles we were into the woods. Looking back, I know how lucky we were to have not gotten lost in that thick array of trees. If the river had not been there to guide us, I am sure the situation would have turned out much worse on the basis of naivety. Laying out our sleeping bags we had bravely carried all this way, and turning on the lantern, we settled down. I began to hum…
“Beneath the bebop moon, I want to croon with youuuu. Beneath the mambo sun, I got to be the one, with youuuu ohhh with youuu oooh with you.”
Cynth laughed. Electric Warrior by T. Rex was the greatest album of the century and sure to uplift us in any mood. Since its release in the previous fall, it had been the only thing either of us listened to…well, besides the church hymns Cynthia’s parents made her listen to. I had always wondered why anyone even went to church when they could just turn on a record and hear Marc Bolan’s voice.
“My life’s a shadowless horse, if I can’t get across to youuu. In the alligator rain, my heart’s all pain for youuu ooh for youuu ooh for you,” Cynth’s melodic voice rang out in the damp of the woods.
I grinned and jumped to my feet, holding out my hand for her in a mock bow.
“Girl you’re good, and I’ve got wild knees for youuu. On a mountain range, I’m Doctor Strange for youuu ooh for youuu ooh for you,” we both sang loudly together, the solitude of the forest like an open armed invitation for scream singing.
“Upon a savage lake, make no mistake; I love youuuu,” Cynthia sang, cupping my face in her hands with a grin.
As we twisted and turned on the pine needles and dirt, converse past the point of dirty and heading towards radioactive, we laughed. Laughed more freely than either of us ever had before and ever would again. I have never been one for religion, but sometimes I find myself praying that those versions of us are still there, under the bebop moon, singing as horribly loud as possible, voices ferocious and indignant to the world outside of our clasped hands.
After we finished our two person party, well, maybe three if you counted Marc Bolan, we collapsed onto our sleeping bags exhausted out of our minds.
“Time for bed?” I said softly.
“Definitely.”
We had pushed as close together as possible, the darkness of the forest complete and pitch black, our lantern and the soft glow of the moon the only solace. Surprisingly, I wasn’t scared. I never really was when I had Cynthia. I slept well.
Dancing in the nude
Feeling such a dude
It’s a rip-off
Mountings of the moon
Remind me of my spoon
It’s a rip-off
Such a rip-off
August 8th, 1972 – 9:27am
I woke up damp with Mambo Sun playing on repeat in my head. Droplets clung to my shirt in the way they usually held onto grass on cool mornings. Glancing over at Cynthia, I noticed she was still asleep. Lips slightly parted, hair sprawled around. Smiling with victory, I realized I could set up breakfast for both of us before she woke. Her parents always made her get up early to pray or do whatever else boring stuff they did, so when she spent the night with me she slept in for hours. As quietly as I could, I reached into my pack where I had stored our breakfast; nutella sandwiches with strawberries. (I don’t know why I was so convinced that bringing the sandwiches out of my bag was the same thing as cooking a gourmet brunch). After I had laid them down in between our sleeping bags on the containers they were brought in, I waited, eyes wandering around the looming greenwood and occasionally to Cynth’s sleeping form. I must’ve spaced out because Cynthia’s voice startled me back to earth.
“Good morning,” she mumbled, pushing hair out of her eyes.
“Morning! I made us breakfast.”
“Made?” she raised an eyebrow.
“Shut up.”
We ate in content silence, listening to the forest’s morning sounds. Afterwards,we continued our journey, slightly sore from yesterday’s walking and dancing.
The throne of time
Is a kingly thing
From whence you know
We all do begin
And dressed as you are girl
In your fashions of fate
Baby it’s too late
Shallow all the actions
Of the children of men
Fogged was their vision
Since the ages began
And lost like a lion
In the canyons of smoke
Girl it’s no joke
Present Day – 1:49am
Writing this broke my heart, the same way it broke all those years ago. I won’t pretend this conclusion is a happy one. Like a soft receding, it drags you slowly up the rocks, like the tide going out. Cynthia and I never did find any treasure, but after those long days and cold nights spent in blissful solitude, it felt like we had. We were just as happy without. Until we were thrust back into reality.
We returned home, a little worse for wear, even Cynthia’s perfect hair sticking up and matted in all the wrong places. Her parents were outraged, called me so many things I didn’t even understand at the time. Mostly, though, they were made at Cynthia. They didn’t like how “boyish” we acted together, and I couldn’t help but wonder why being boyish was defined as having fun and being free. What was “girlish” then? The prison of a life they built for Cynthia? I didn’t want to be a girl if it meant ending up how Cynthia did. There was never more a time in my life that I wished we had found treasure, that it was bars of gold I could’ve used to pay for tickets to some far off land where Cynth and I could be together. They wouldn’t let her speak to me after that summer, and when I tried at school her eyes glazed over me, cool and steady. I knew something was wrong, I knew it, and I tried. Trust me, I tried everything. I even broke into her damn house. But it wasn’t enough. Cynthia killed herself the next summer, sometime around August. The same time around when we had gone on our trip. I wondered if she had been thinking about that forest too, like I always had, like I still do. It can’t be healthy to dwell, I know, but there’s no way it’s healthy to forget about her. People say pain gets easier with time, but I am not sure; her sunny hair and smile still lingers in my dreams and nightmares, a taunting of what I lost. God, but I wouldn’t give up those memories for anything. So, I think I’ll leave you with this, Reader; a tragedy if you so like, or maybe a fairy tale of two girls who sought treasure and found it. Who ran away together and spent the rest of their long lives content, sitting on window sills rich in smiles. Two girls who had a long history and future to figure out they were in love. Or the truth; one girl realizing, the other long dead. Baby, it’s too late.
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