Joshua Chen
leaves, sticks in hand, with our dirty faces and innocent laughs. The
greatest and most dangerous adventures came when we would stumble
upon some dry ravine, the water replaced with a stream of leaves and
branches. On lucky occasions we’d find a log forming a bridge across
the chasm and we’d dare each other to cross it. I would usually wimp
out, remembering my mother’s fears.
One afternoon, though, I went there by myself and looked at the
fallen tree for a long time, and watched the falling leaves around me. I
tried to measure the distance from my position to the bottom of the
ravine, but even if I could, I doubt it would have made me any less
afraid. Unsteadily, foot by foot, I moved across the log, but slipped
halfway and fell to the ground. I landed hard on the balls of my feet
and stood there stunned, but mostly unharmed. I remember it was the
first time I felt a little bit invincible.
In later years, the leaves and the conversation left me, but I remember thinking of them again on another autumn day by the sea. This was
during my second year of grad school. Her name was Lily, and we’d go
to the boardwalk with the roller coasters on lazy weekends. She loved
those rides, and I’d go for her. I didn’t mind the roller coasters, but I
never really got used to the queasy feeling that came from the ups and
downs. Mostly, I liked sitting on the benches overlooking the ocean.
She’d rest her head on my shoulder and we’d talk for hours about anything as the screams from the rides ebbed and flowed like waves against
our ears. We would talk about the typical things. School. Plans for
winter break. Our futures. I would talk about Raymond Carver and
T.S. Eliot and joke about my dissertation and the uncertain job market
for English PhD’s. She would talk about math.
She was an engineer, from a family of engineers. I’d hear it subtly in
the way she talked, in the way she’d describe things, in the things she
did. Life was a calculus. Love was a calculus. She would often echo her
father’s words. It’s about precision, she’d tell me, do the math right and
you’ll never be let down. I’d smile and tell her I could never do math
anyway. She’d point to one of the rides and spew out all these physics
terms and numbers and my head would spin. Gravity constants, angular whatevers, something about space. I would make remarks about the
worst roller coaster disasters in history and wonder who those unlucky
fools were, but she’d just continue with her abstract calculations. “The
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