“Okay, Mrs. Scurfield,” I said. “You win. I‘ll tell you why I hate the Trees. Or I’ll try.”“Good.”
I wanted to get it right. But my mind was blank. “Forgive me if I'm a little incoherent,” I said. "Or tangential."
“We’re not in a hurry,” she whispered.
I was more than a little incoherent, and my speech was pocked with "umm," "well," "y’know," "like," "er," "uh." I won't transcribe it exactly. Each sentence took a minute.
“I get these moments,” I sighed, “where I realize that it doesn’t matter who I talk to or what’s going on, I know that I’m just gonna feel miserable and out of touch with everything.” I paused for a minute. “I’m sad, and it can’t be beaten. Or maybe I’m happy. I have no control. Or very little. It's chemicals in my brain.”
Mrs. Scurfield was paying close attention. “Mmmhmm,” she said, prodding my thoughts forward, though I hadn't yet begun to address her question.
“So on some level,” I continued, neglecting to explain what feeling out of touch had to do with anything, “the Trees just look scary and they’re a mystery, and they frightened me as a child, and that’s enough. I don‘t know. Maybe I’ll never be able to put my finger on what it is about them that bothers me so much.”
“Come on,” she protested.
The umm, uh, er, y’know's multiplied, and married themselves to longer pauses. “Well, maybe as I’ve grown older,” I said, “they’ve become a symbol.” I felt like I was just saying what I thought she wanted to hear. “Or not quite a symbol, but something -they have some connection to everything like nature and life and whatever.” My voice trailed off at the end. It was the worst response I could’ve imagined giving.
Mrs. Scurfield nodded. I felt a twist in my stomach.
“That’s not it at all,” I said, closing my eyes. “That’s too… Um, it’s too tidy.”
“I’ve heard that sort of thing before,” she said to me. “‘Too tidy.’ Yes. Tidy. I think that actually you have a good start there.”
“No. I don’t.”
“No?” she asked.
“It’s hard to put into words.”
“Of course,” she said. “But in this case words are all you’ve got.”
“Oh God,” I sighed. “I can’t believe how poorly I’m explaining this.”
“It’s alright. Think it through.” She was looking at me. I looked back and tried to read her face. It was impenetrable.
More soon.
3 comments:
Well that was much better than why I thought you hated the trees. Great entry. It's not easy to write rambling. You've pulled it off quite well. I'm starting to feel a real connection to your story.
I'm so glad.
Strange name Mrs. Scurfield has given this organization. But hey, she's listening.
Post a Comment