Yours Truly 2017 / Cascadia College / Bothell, WA 2017 YT Online Book | Page 27

I find myself thinking of how satisfyingly
tedious it would be to undo them one by one,
and the thought startles me in its boldness.
Have I mentioned I have no fondness for people?
But I stare at those buttons for a long time, the
only sound around us the rustling leaves and
turning pages (which are the same sound, really,
if you think about it). I should say something
to her, something smart, but I’m no good at
conversation and all the smart things I know are
about taxes.

I turn instead to the headstones before
us, retracing the carved words and dates I
already know so well. The smallest one reads,
“Emily Rose Portman, 1910 - 1929“ and below
that a quote by Henry David Thoreau:

“I went to the woods because I wished to
live deliberately, to front only the essential facts
of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to
teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that
I have not lived.”

I have spent many an afternoon
contemplating this quote, and I now find myself
sinking into those old familiar thoughts. Quite
unintentionally, I say out loud, “I wonder what
it feels like to die.” Immediately embarrassed, I
stuff my mouth with another bite of tuna and
hope she has not heard me. She looks up from
her book and stares out into the burning trees.
The silence lasts so long I’m sure my comment
has gone unnoticed. But then, in a voice older
than I expected, she says, “Falling . . . it feels like
falling.”

I look at her then, as the wind picks up
again. She has strawberry blonde hair done
up loosely and the wisps around her face have
blown free. She looks lost and it is all I can do
to keep from tucking those stray strands behind
her ear. Instead I busy myself with finishing
my lunch and noisily crumpling my paper bag.
I have never met someone I so strongly cared
to look upon and I am fighting an inner battle
between wanting to touch her, and needing to
leave at once to keep from doing so. I mumble,
“Have a nice afternoon,” and stand. “And you,”
she says as I walk away.

After taking the corner, I realize I’ve
left my briefcase beneath the bench. My heart
speeds at the opportunity for a last glance at
her — a foreign reaction, to be sure — but when
the bench comes into view again, it is empty.

Well, not quite. Her book is sitting there.
It is a thick, aging tome with a dark blue canvas
hardcover. The title reads, The Early Works of
Thoreau.
W ith fearful anticipation, I lift the cover.

Handwritten on the title page:

E. R . Portman

A shiver runs through me, though the
wind has died down. Looking around to make
sure I am indeed alone, I tuck the volume into
my briefcase and hurry down the path beneath
the oaks, staring, of course, at my shoes and
pondering what it would feel like to run barefoot
through short-clipped grass, beneath which lie
forgotten souls.
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