Selected for publication in the 2009 Edition of Mosaic, Nicholls State University's Literary Magazine

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Inside the Well of My Memory

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            Change plays an insignificant role in Schriever, Louisiana.  The houses all resemble one another, poignant abodes housing human beings everyone else in the town knows by face, voice, and heritage.  I see the same trees, buildings, and roads that have occupied my hometown well before I was born.  I myself have resided in this happy medium between two bustling cities for my entire life.  My grandparents married in 1959, bought some land, and established a private lane in which their families could thrive undisturbed.  Sixty or more peach trees once formed an orchard of bustling green soldiers, guarding us grandchildren as we zigzagged among them in some silly game of hide-and-seek.  Now only twenty or so Japanese plum and satsuma trees litter my backyard lot, and they continue to serve as blossoming skeletons of my childhood.

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            Until I was fifteen, these small remnants of my fading youth meant hardly anything to my preoccupied mind.  High school, friends, and organizations tossed me around in waves of exhilaration; I rarely had time to catch my breath or relax.  Whenever I actually managed to settle down and gather my thoughts, I often placed a Sting album in my CD player.  Mesmerized, inspired by, and enamored with the illustrious singer’s lyrics, voice, and musicality, I have attempted to emulate him since the age of eleven.  My family members, who typically prefer Western, country, or classic rock, have never comprehended my seemingly unnatural fascination with the somewhat unconventional celebrity; nevertheless, come Christmas or my birthday, they have quenched my thirst for more of Sting’s works or the compilations of his legendary rock group The Police.  Of course, tasks and daily worries interrupted my short escape from reality into a land filled with fountains of striking melodies and lyrics; however, I always knew I had Sting to console me and help me relax.

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            Before my life entered a realm of adulthood and accumulating responsibilities, I dwelled within a child’s paradise.  I spent my days reading or narrating picture books with my invented tales, drawing masterpieces my mother or grandmother proudly displayed on their refrigerators, conquering enemies on my Nintendo systems, or chasing imaginary friends outdoors.  Despite all these beloved pastimes, my most treasured times included visiting with my family.  My aunt and uncle, who are also my nanny and paran – our customized, tender Cajun French terms for godmother and godfather, respectively – and their children, my cousins Ashley and Brandon, each welcomed my sisters and me with several hugs and kisses, and a surprise often manifested itself in the shape of a new toy or some prized swizzle stick candies.  Ashley, five years my senior, oversaw Brandon’s, my sisters’, and my antics, laughing at our whimsical games of knight and princesses, hide-and-seek, or our favorite: barrel-rolling.  My grandfather collected white plastic barrels on which we rolled ourselves giddily, and we frequently forced someone to go inside the hollow one so the rest of us could roll him or her. 

 

           Naturally, we girls generally pitted ourselves against Brandon, unconcerned that he was by himself.  Perhaps we were merely inspired by the “girls rule, boys drool” mindset of our juvenile culture, but circumstances in which Brandon was favorably singled out influenced our behavior as well.  Since he was the only male grandchild of my maternal grandparents, Brandon earned the amount of praise we four girls collected combined.  A precocious and undeniably intelligent boy, my grandparents and godparents acknowledged his feats and reveled in his wit.  He blamed us for every blunder, knowing his words would save him from punishments.  One could conclude that jealousy served as an impetus for my occasional spurts of anger or cruelty towards him, and I reflect now and see no other excuse for the foolish name-calling or few punches and kicks I threw at him.  We two matured, wordlessly apologized, and forgave each other as we grew up.  Unfortunately, I now no longer see Brandon as often as I did in our childhood.

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            September 2004 clings to my mind like a hawk’s sharp talons.  One morning I was quietly listening to "Dead Man’s Rope" by Sting, an acoustic melody about learning to release fears and a potential early death by taking the time to reflect and gain a sense of spirituality, when I suddenly heard mumbling in the living room.  My mother and grandmother looked up at me as I entered, and their countenances sharply struck every chord of my soul.

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            “Brandon has cancer,” my mother somberly conveyed.  “It’s called hepatocellular carcinoma.  It’s in his liver.  He’ll be going to St. Jude soon.”  The palpable shock tickled my flesh, and my grandmother began to cry. 

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The doctors told my godparents that this particular form of cancer is extremely rare in the United States, and a cure is unknown.  Most patients die within one to two years.  Brandon’s tumor had grown to an inoperable size; the doctors placed a medical port on his chest in which his parents would have to administer medicine at home.  The doctors described the healing procedures with the most sugarcoated terms they could derive, but all the measures still sounded excruciatingly painful and precarious.

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           Despite the grim prognosis, Brandon gracefully welcomed his cross.  My eyes had never witnessed such a gallant attitude in any adult, much less a thirteen-year-old boy.  My cousin’s dark hair disappeared due to the chemotherapy, but he retained a smile underneath his baseball caps.  Anytime the families visited each other and ventured into town, he would chatter with us about the latest video games or scientific development.  Our relationship deepened as we spent more time with each other, enjoying life instead of counting down days or recalling past arguments.  Numerous family members, friends, and acquaintances assembled at church or said rosaries, holding onto the belief that God cures and remembers His beloved children. 

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           On January 8, 2005, four days before Brandon’s fourteenth birthday, my family and I received news that Brandon had passed away in his room while watching television with his father.  The day spun in a blur, with family and friends visiting my house and sharing the same tears.  My godparents arrived in Schriever later that night after traveling from Monroe; words lost their effect.  Nanny and Paran arranged the funeral for January 11 and spoke with my grandparents about sending out invitations.  I silently slipped away to my bedroom to regain my composure.

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      I lay in my bed while I listened to one of my CDs and closed my eyes: 

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A million footsteps, this left foot drags behind my right,
But I keep walking, from daybreak 'til the falling night,
And as days turn into weeks and years,
And years turn into lifetimes,
I just keep walking, like I've been walking for a thousand years…

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       "Dead Man’s Rope" filtered through my ears.  The lilting chords played on the guitar nestled against not only my eardrum but also my heart and soul.  The world quit spinning; I was alone in my room with the darkness and the music.  I related the words to my family’s new struggle to move on and live life after losing such a young family member.  All of us now bore a burden that would accompany us until we, too, were lowered into our respective graves.

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If you're walking to escape, to escape from your affliction,
You'd be walking in a great circle, a circle of addiction.
Did you ever wonder what you'd been carrying since the world was black?
You see yourself in a looking glass with a tombstone on your back…

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         My eyes refused to blink as my favorite lines reverberated in my room.  Life encompasses mortality, and we humans all die someday.  An escape eludes us; we only trick ourselves and lose precious moments whenever we attempt a search for immortality or an eternal escape from the pains of life.  Brandon lost several years due to his disease, but he reveled in what he had left.  He laughed at the movies we watched and discussed politics with my grandfather, and he managed to view my marching shows at the festivals that he and my godparents attended.  Tears gathered around my pupils as I realized not even death could conquer the immutable power of faith and man’s own will.

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Now I'm suspended between my darkest fears and dearest hope.
Yes, I've been walking, now I'm hanging from a dead man's rope.
With Hell below me, and Heaven in the sky above,
I've been walking, I've been walking away from Jesus' love.

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            Sting’s tender croon caressed my mentality as I opened my eyes for the deluge of tears.  Yes, I had lost hope in God’s promise of healing His children; I had formed my own path, my own noose, and my own death.  I had quietly anguished over my past mistakes in arguing and fighting with my younger cousin, who ended up suffering more than any of us girls. 

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            “You vowed to us,” I whispered, “that he would live.  He would live.” Sting interrupted my outpouring with one of the simplest and most beautiful lines in all of his songs:

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The shadows fall
Around my bed
When the hand of an angel,
The hand of an angel is reaching down above my head.

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            I ceased my crying for a moment.  Similar to Sting’s interruption of my grievance, the sudden change of the song’s tone serves a purpose for healing.  A higher power or spiritual awakening intervenes, showing the singer that he is certainly not alone.  Lying with only my mind’s ghosts and my own fears, I felt a stirring in my heart and in the atmosphere.  I was not alone; God had not forsaken me.  I, along with my entire family, would endure our loss with heavenly intercessions watching over us:

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All the days of my life I will walk with you.
All the days of my life I will talk with you.
All the days of my life I will share with you.
All the days of my life I will bear with you.

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            The ending verses of the song embraced me, mentally and physically.  I arose and stared at my walls.  Brandon had not left this life in vain: He would serve as an angel and guardian in Heaven.  God knew long ago that someone particularly remarkable would guide my family in future hardships and tragedies.  My tears of sorrow would be traded for tears of gratitude and joy, for my beloved cousin would now accompany me in a stronger and more intimate manner.  As I contemplated this extraordinary concept, the final strums of the guitar introduced the next song, and I managed to slowly fall asleep, imagining five children running and giggling through a peach tree orchard.

 

 

          

           

[The format of the original paper may differ due to this Website.]