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"They say you've gone away again, Regina. That this time you've gone so far inside of yourself that you may never come out again. I need you to come back again and talk to me. Talk to me like you did when we were kids. Your mother tells me that something . . . anything could trigger a return. A memory, a song, a blast from your past if you will. That's why I've come. With this old photograph. The one your mother took of us after we'd just finished burying Gus in the planter. Didn't we have a ball laying him out just right--stiff as a poker he was, too. But wrapped in one of your mother's lace hankies and all laid out in the Styrofoam sausage container he looked pretty good for a mouse who'd met his maker on the tine of your grandfather's garden prong. We all cried that day, holding hands in a circle as we sang hymns at Gus' funeral. Remember how after all the other kids went home, you and I sat on the edge of that old planter in your backyard and wondered if Gus was in animal heaven. I don't know how I ended up with this picture, though. But I remember your mother taking a whole roll of film that day. Remember the click, click; click, click; in the background as she snapped away with that old Hawkeye Brownie. She said people always take pictures of weddings, but never of funerals, so she was going to start a whole new trend. 'I'm not myself, sometimes.' You said that to me--years later--one summer night as we sat on the planter shoving our cigarette butts way down in the fresh mound of soil your father had dumped inside it. I wonder why he did that every year, but never really planted anything. I didn't have a clue then, what you meant by 'not myself' and you tried so hard to explain. I only wish now that I'd taken you seriously. 'I feel like I'm someone else,' you went on. 'Like I'm outside my own body and nobody else knows it. But sometimes I feel dead. Flat. And I don't know where I've gone.' Your blonde hair blew over your face in curly wisps and in the moonlight you were so beautiful. But your eyes were sad. I still remember how sad you looked that night. How was I to know that it was just beginning. We were teenagers by then and had our whole lives ahead of us. By September you'd started drifting away big time. I used to come over and sit on the planter and smoke by myself and wonder why you wouldn't come out of your room. When your family decided that a change of scenery would do you good and you moved out west, I was devastated. After that I lost touch. Only heard bits and pieces of gossip that drifted back to the neighbourhood the odd time. I never really knew what was wrong with you, Regina. The only thing that was mentioned was something vague called 'mental problems.' Then life got in the way and you only flitted across my mind once in a while. When I'd see one of those big square planters somewhere. Or when I'd glimpse a blonde girl with wispy curls walking somewhere on a moonlit night, or catch the sent of Kool cigarettes on the wind. Then you'd be there trying to explain what was happening to you. Other times, Gus' funeral would flash across my mind. And there you'd be, plain as day, snuffling back tears and swinging your foot back and forth while I tried my best to make you smile. Then two days ago your Mother found me again. 'Ten years,' she said. 'Ten years we've been fighting this demon. And sometimes we think we're winning. Then Regina starts . . . like the song says . . . slip' slidin' away again.' Her eyes had the same sad look as yours did that night you first spoke of not being yourself. So look, Regina. Turn your head and look at me. I brought you a pack of Kool's. Are you even allowed to smoke in this place? You know what I did? After you moved away, I planted some Forget-me-nots in that planter. I don't know if Gus was still there or not. But they bloomed beautifully anyway. That's it, look at me. God! Your eyes are as blue as ever. Take the photograph and look at it Regina. Can you see us out there in the backyard? Don't we look like two little rag-muffins? Smile for me . . . please, sweetie. All I want for now is just a smile. Just one smile . . . ." (c) 2002 Marlene McCarty |
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| Slip Slidin' Away by Marlene McCarty |
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| *slip slidin' away appeared in Wynterblue Thunder Magazine July, 2002 Previously published in Inkblot Magazine May 2001 |