I Waited All This Time

Reads: 419  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 1

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
For Jayme and that's it

Submitted: September 01, 2010

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 01, 2010

A A A

A A A


I couldn’t allow you to say what you wouldn’t ever say. I was eclipsing light from your face so you could see me. I couldn’t allow myself to say what wasn’t going to be said. I was just watching you count your change again, now it is again again. I bent the fork a few times and put it on your wrist. I received your smile and blinked a few. I wunk. I read the article again yet, I didn’t measure the distance well. I didn’t read the article again, which is now again again. I spelt your name with my tongue in cursive. It felt like I championed something. I looked through a window to know generations. I held your distance, one I couldn’t read, and one I tried, again again.  

You knew you couldn’t want what you never intended to want. You felt the dank fog as residue on the plastic of your ticket. You pinched the thigh once back then as you did now. You click your tongue and think about trains. You never thought of streetlights or telephone wires though. You never tried imagining. You didn’t think it was real. You never imagined flowers when I said them. You looked for them on the walls, on the furniture, in the garden, in the water. You couldn’t read books unless you read words. You sat waiting for me to say what wouldn’t be said. You anchored yourself to my wrist as if everything was balanced off that. You watched my love burn a hole right through my head and project visions of us in your eyes. You couldn’t reflect that.

I grew up by a dam that broke once. I was saved more than once in my life. I never kept pictures because I would often lose them. I have stacks and columns of notebooks that fall from my palms like leaves. They remain in the corners and in the places where shadows dwell. My pages nearly become shadows. I am afraid of the night most nights. I am never concerned about shadows. I hear you hum soft through the distance and I persuade myself I know. I watch the moon to think that you see it too. To know that we are both staring at the moon at one moment. I read the New Yorker. I watch movies half way and get leaving anxiety. I write backwards to see if something changes. Read the New Yorker again, which is again again. I spill spoonfuls of sugar on my lawn, yet nothing grows. I argue with the neighbor about feeding his dog. I buy more sugar so the neighbor’s dog will be silent. I listen for my thoughts; try to catch them when they come. I sometimes dodge the ones that you send my way, just because my love for you is real. Sometimes I catch the ones I don’t want. Sometimes I think of you never returning. I think about everything I would have never said. I think about the chances of what I said and if I should have said it at all. I wonder if there was something I would have never said that would save me. I think of the words I used and how they mean so many things: did she hear what I said, did she hear what I wouldn’t say?

You buy paper and leave it blank in your drawer. You melt wax into little balls and stack them into pyramids. Your calendar is left in your suitcase. You watched the twilight and think of cud. You grew up were it often rains. Now you grow up in a place where you often walk. You close your eyes twice and open them again in order to wake up. You jumped into a river that bent from Germany to France. You picked up a frame in the riverbed and saw your generations ago. You send me letters and feel the gravity that each word compels. You tell me it is like peeling tattoos from your body and weaving them on the page. You always said it was hard to communicate through paper. You never read copies of anything. You listened more often than anything. You listen to things I would have never heard. You listen to things before they were said, before they were thought of. You listen for me and begin to hear something in the wind. You mapped out wind patterns on your refrigerator. Once a month you go to your balcony and feel my breath and listen to my whisper.

I sit on laundry machines and think of nothing but you. I ride up and down Highway 1 at least twice a week and stare at the ocean. I read Walt Whitman and feel transpired. I look for the frontier. I search for the purpose like a sailor does the covenant and get confused. I look East and see the division in each of us. I see each of us a twilight. A dawn or a sunset. Each of us the beginning and end of a compass. I look East and have to see myself. I look East and I see you, I must look West and look West, I look West for you, something is in the way of certain days. Mostly it is the rolling box of fog obscuring my visions. In the fog I draw your face and feel like a humming bird. I am trying to usher the fog away so I can see you clearly again. I don’t take showers much yet when I do I take off my clothes. I don’t eat much, yet when I do I put the salt in my face hole. I don’t laugh much; when I do I scare all my friends. I don’t cry much, when I do I sit behind a waterfall. I write letters to you and leave six notebooks behind. Every letter is three notebooks. My calendar is on my phone and I’m incessantly running. Sometimes I stop to hear your soundings in the world around me. I know it’s you I don’t need anyone to tell me it isn’t.  

You reserve your smile for sudden warmth in the memory. You practice ghosts and try not to be as lonely at night. You set out your brain in Paris and feel the tithe plunge in like sunlight. You dreamt of a daydream with your eyes open and laughed for a half-an-hour. You made one friend and she is vanishing in her face. You spilt coffee on a Café table and felt burdened with responsibility. You thought about things you didn’t think of and felt someone had conspired against you. You tripped on a crescent and felt history hold you back up. You seemed interested in roads and shy around Algerians. You watched \"Les Miserable’s\" and remembered why you came here. You watched it again and again again and finally found meaning in the song. You looked at your suitcase and sighed for an hour. You took out your wallet and imagined me holding your chest on the couch of our home.

And we waited all this time just to begin. I waited by the phone for two decades, one year, three months, four days, six hours, thirty minutes—every day before this was waiting for you. Every freckle in the sky I look to as trinity. I think it is the plane that you are on. I get anxious and take the bus to the airport. I sit and watch the people at the terminal and forget about myself. I watch the variegation of faces, bodies, clothes, bags, suitcases, hands, voices, walks, expressions, and distance. I recall ballroom halls filled with people dancing and watching and eating and talking. I remember not knowing much of anyone’s name. I didn’t know much about them, they didn’t know much about me. I sat organizing my identification cards. I read my name again again again until I lost it. Until my spirit became this middle space between all these orbiting spirits. Each one getting somewhere, each one getting nowhere. Each one leaving or arriving, coming or going, running or walking, moving or sitting, waiting or boarding. Each hardly has time, energy, or the recourses to understand and know every one here. Each one as capable as forgetting as the next, as capable as remembering. Everything obscuring into a fog. I get claustrophobic and loose the frontier. Because in this world of obscurity every direction is the wrong direction, every direction is the right direction, and that is the claustrophobic musing. Eye see a ray of light punch through the obscurity and each one of us stops and turns to terminal eight gate seven. See the searchlight rip through the cloud and dissolve the fog. Each person begins to vanish. You said something you were always gonna say. I said something I wouldn’t ever say if there weren’t you. Now it’s all I want to say. Its only thing I can know is true. The light falls on me. You eclipse the light so I can see you. I smile like it is my first time. I see you.


© Copyright 2020 Daniel Talamantes. All rights reserved.

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Add Your Comments:

More Literary Fiction Short Stories