Author Games: Circle

Finals | Robin Laverne

There's one memory I've never shared. Not with ma. It didn't come up in conversation with Dante, Salvadore, Jamie. Not even Perry ever heard this story from my lips; it's mine only.

And it belongs, also, to a man buried six feet beneath the earth. Warmly, tidily, and dead. It's a trapped scene, draped over and hidden away like a gemstone- but like all rocks, its creation is inescapable. And, in order for it to come to the foreground, I must speak his name to the three others beside me.

Is this guilt seeping into my words? Or plain and melancholy sadness, merely filtering them before solidifying into concrete voice? Mister Smith, Saga- even the dog seems to listen to what I say, how I say it, the unheard tale filling the circle with more dreams than nightmares, which is perhaps the strangest phenomenon. And that is why I think of it now.

Because it's like everything I've ever let go.

Snapshot:

Empire State Building, 1994

"Robin, did you remember your magic thing?"

My father's hand squeezes mine tightly, his fingers larger and plumper and hairier- his knuckles are dark and he speaks with whimsy, as if the ground beneath us will never hear him again. Perhaps it won't, and he's holding my hand because he's the scared one and not me. But that'd be wrong! The father protects the girl; the girl's palm fits in his, and together their skin twines the fear into nothingness. Even at thirteen, a father's love carries like infancy, like childhood.

"Yes!" I say. I jump, my feet flying and then hitting the elevator ground with a odd thump. It's quick and my balance waivers, but dad's hand keeps me upright, one of his gorgeous laughs spilling out of his mouth. I love that sound, I think, and I'll do everything in the world to keep it playing. Keep it fluttering through the skies.

So, I laugh with him- ma says I have the same laugh as dad, but I can't hear it, especially when we can't contain it and our throats become dry, stomach heaving for air; besides, it's those moments ma claims we sound the most similar. I think she's right. At least, I hope she's right, because there's no one in the world I'd rather mimic than my father. His hand squeezes mine again, and the elevator continues to ding past floor and floor.

He nods after his chuckles fade. "Good," he mutters quietly, as if the other passengers aren't allowed to hear him. "Because there's so many wonders where we're going. You'll want to remember them." Then, he smiles. There's always been a mystery in my dad's grin, like a puzzle resold to an unknowing customer, the toy box taken home to realize only half of the thousand pieces remain. That's him; a labyrinth, a maze, a wonderful room of no doors, no windows. Yet light flows in from every corner, and the secrets I'll not know become insignificant. All I crave is the smile itself, born from a joke I've said to him or some other funny thing.

"How many?" I ask. The growth of impatience is fast, and suddenly I find myself tapping my foot and anxiously waiting for the elevator doors to slide open at the top floor. Dad forgot to tell me the name of the building- or perhaps he did, and I'd been too excited to listen, too quick in my farewell to ma that I hadn't realized the plans laid out before us were limited. Were waning. Were something I'd lose in the future.

No, I was too girlish to cherish him while he was here. I was too much of a child to listen, to calm, and to savor the time winding down around us. I should've loved him more, I think; perhaps that would've helped him stay.

"How high can you count?" he asks.

I scoff, as if to tell him how much of a dummy you're being. "I'm almost done with middle school, dad."