Michelle Nhung Le

Posted on: 6/10/2021

The grass was artificial, a layer of tiny green hair laid over infinite little lumps of black rubber that always found their way into my shoes, where they stubbornly nested until I could finally coax them out. But then, the world was quiet that day. As quiet as it could be, with every noise receding into the distance, fading into gentle murmurs, and the sky sunless and cloudless, emanating pale, grayish-blue light like an Oracle’s orb. And under this expanse of nothingness, I lay on her nap, resting my eyes, cloaked in her warmth.

She leaned in close. I could barely make out her features, but I knew those eyes.
“What are you doing here?” asked her.
“I have returned to you.”
“That, you always do.”
“Aren’t you happy?”
“Yes, but you have somewhere else to be.”

Gone was this old knot in my chest. This old knot that had always felt like someone’s hand tightened around my heart, not quite squeezing the tormented thing into a bloody blurb but threatening to. I breathed in, feeling my chest expand freely at will, my shoulders lifted and then slumped. The day was breezeless, too, I realized. The air hung in place, cold and dry. Clean, quiet.

She was still looking at me, his shadow falling full on my face. I opened my eyes wide, trying to memorize a ghost.
I croaked, “I want this. Do you?”
“Yes, I want this, too.”
“Then why not be happy?”
“Because you have something else to do.”

Who are you to decide? I wanted to retort, but she had averted her gaze, her face turned upward at the empty sky. I tried to follow the direction of her eyes, but even the weakest of daylight assaulted my eyes. I looked at the tips of my shoes instead, at the gates that lay far beyond. Artificial green and asphalt gray was all I could see. Oh, how I wished I could see the sky pale blue.

Another breath stirred up memories: Other expanses of nothingness. A path leading uphill. A stranded lighthouse. Wandering statues, and a church courtyard where lovely oaks stood. Summer rain, rushing down from the indeterminate above, showering dark-green pines. Dinner amidst polaroids that were hung up on thin threads like freshly laundered clothes out to dry. And sunset at nine in the evening, complemented by a far-away rainbow and the sounds of people coming home.

A bell went off then, ripping the thin fabric of early spring air. The sky brightened, if ever by so slight a degree, and streaks of colors spread here and there, like drops of ink in a tank of clear water, without order. And under this expanse of nothingness that was no longer, I lay on the artificial grass, peeping at the sky, embraced by little lumps of black rubber.

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