5:59 p.m. - Sunday, Nov. 4, 2012
My Favorite Memory
He was smoking a long, orange pipe made of glass. Showing me how he held his thumb over a hole in the bowl with one hand while he lit the contents of the bowl with a lighter in his other hand. He sucked in and lifted his finger from the hole . . .the shaft had filled with white, curling smoke and I watched as it disappeared into his mouth.
I had never even smoked a cigarette.
He placed the pipe in my hand and lit it for me. It burned as the smoke passed through my throat and into my lungs. It suddenly seemed hysterical, this situation. Me sitting there on a mattress, on the floor of this apartment in New York City with a pipe in my hand . . .watching this long-haired, bearded stranger . . .watching me. "Nothing's happening," I managed to squeak in between giggles. He started to laugh. "Nothing's happening," he repeated.
It thundered. It sounded so rich, so full . . .like it was coming from inside of me. Oh, he must have put on some nature music through his fancy speakers. "That's not right," I said . . .thinking he had tried to trick me. I realized from the look on his face that it was actually raining out. "Is that in here?" I asked. "Is what in here?" "The thunder . . .it's in here." "Yeah . . .it's in here," he said to me. "NO," I replied angrily. "It's in HERE," as I pointed to my chest. "I believe you," he said.
He replaced the burnt clippings with something stronger. "Are you ready?" he asked. "Yes," I said. I inhaled again . . .and felt myself falling . . .pulled to the earth. He caught the pipe as I fell back against the mattress. I was flying. On a dragon. Like the dog-dragon from "The Never-Ending Story." I wanted him to come with me . . .didn't want to leave him behind. "Hold on," I told him and he slipped his hand into mine. "Tighter!" I pleaded. He held tighter.
I was dropped into a different world. Flowers made of felt . . .sewn together with thick strands of yarn. Paper and felt flowers taller than I was. Pink skies. I walked through the fields of flowers until I found myself underneath a huge pine tree. I knew this tree. I knew this tree when I was four-years-old. It was in the corner of the playground at the Montessori Schoolhouse . . .Familiar faces. My mothers. The place I had last felt safe. The place I had last felt love. The reason I am a teacher today. The only reason.
"What do I need to do?" I asked them. They didn't respond in words, but I could hear them in my heart. They didn't know. They didn't have the answers.
The pine tree started to fade to black . . .And I reached my free hand to my face, covering my eyes. Tears streamed down the sides of my face. I could feel him there, his hand tight around mine . . .holding more than just my hand . . .holding my emotion, my expression.
When I was finished crying, I took my other hand away and sat up. It was red. He had been holding so tightly, his hand was imprinted against my skin.
"They didn't know what to do either," I said. As if he had been there. "Who didn't?" "THEY didn't." He nodded, as if he understood.
And that was enough. I didn't die that summer. I lived.
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