Jade Aspirations

I stand quietly, staring at the worn little notebook in my hands. Its pages are full of notes, scribbles, and brief phrases. Folded flyers and dog-eared pages yield dated poetry readings and several hard-won stanzas staring up from the battle-weary pages. Years of collected memories and hastily drawn brambles that somehow conspired to this moment. A post-it with my name proudly pasted to the front, followed by the block print: "Thank you for all you have done for me". My fingers touch the edges of his words. My hands look almost jaundiced in the green glow from the harsh lamps above. Tonight, I face another paralyzing war. A rich exhaustion seeps into my soul. I haven't been to one of these in years. Just like an end to get you thinking about the beginning.

My mind carries me back to the month prior. A notable pillar lies in rest to join the earth. On that crisp, grey morning, I steel myself cautiously, determined to slink off quickly. A recently mowed field sits next to a graveyard with several dozen people I don't know. Dead clumps of sod face a closed coffin littered with glistening flowers from the morning dew. I absentmindedly play with a blade of grass between my slender fingers. It plays calmly in my hand as I escape into the rolling landscape. A series of leafy foliage lines the glen. Their arms sway gently in the breeze. Sunlight softly filters through the clouds while the parade in black meanders to their places. Here goes nothing.

A lady in a full sheath dress approaches me lightly with a tap on my shoulder. Her amber eyes catch the rays overhead. "How're you doing, dear? I noticed you didn't eat anything at the wake. We don't want you going hungry. You're all skin and bones." Her wrinkled smile casts its glow onto my pale, unassuming face. Doesn't she realize I don't really know him? "Why don't you come sit with us? My family and I would love to meet you. I'm sure you'll have so much to talk about." Clearly, she doesn't. Bewildered, I'm ripped from my quiet corner as her iron-willed grip locks down on my arm and hurls me toward the masses in black. I'm pulled through crowds of hushed laughter and greyed out grins. Nearby trees rustle. An unease builds.

As abruptly as I was snatched from my haven, I am thrown into a makeshift seat of horror, smack dab in front of the man of honor himself. His framed likeness stands prominently to the left. The literary master and wordsmith of the ages entombed in spring garlands. She begins quietly chittering to the young lady next to her. "I'm back with a friend." His coffin stares at me as her words roll through my mental haze. "... sitting all alone! ..." His contented grin peers down ominous and unmoving, like he knows I don't belong. "... just had to extend a warm welcome ..." I need to say something. Anything. "... It's what he would have wanted ..." I frantically glance around. My desperation palpable. Looking for an exit, looking for any way out of this mess, looking for a sudden and hasty release. My car is in the distant parking lot. I brace for my escape.

"Ahem." A cleared throat breaks the gaggle. A pregnant silence pulses the air. "Thank you for arriving here today. Although Laurence is not here to say it himself, I am sure he would be beyond blessed." Soft grins and knowing nods lighten the crowd. I shrink back into the metal chair knowing it is too late. A pang of fear readies itself. "We are gathered here today to celebrate the man who touched each one of us. His passion shone through with his love for his family, in his donations to the community, and, most especially, in his poetic works. His fervor for life and genuine spirit was felt by all that knew him. As his final wish, Laurence asks his good fortunes be gifted back to the very souls that grew his. May they each flourish in their own beautiful way."

Her bony hand pats mine. Her nails display a cool mint. Her warm eyes blink back tears. I sink further into the cold, black chair and dream of retreating into the ground, of disappearing beneath the dirt. This mistake is a pit in my stomach, dragging me down to the abyss. I don't belong here.

Name upon name is called, gift upon gift is given, smile upon smile is beamed. Cool, collective clapping rends through the air. A child receives several journals, like an empty meadow where dreams find eternal sleep. A friend receives the complete works of Edgar Allan Poe, like a morbid boxset of literary doom. The dread creep, creep, creeping up my rigid spine. Impact pushes my chest inward. I definitely shouldn't be here.

"To Cameron Stoddard." Flurries of doom and shame and gloom and pain rocket through my soul. Oh god, no. Daggers in their eyes blitz toward me, prying into my collapsing psyche. "I searched a long time for you." Silent and unmoving as a crypt at night. A spindly arm wraps around my shoulder with a tight pull. The devilish grip meant to be comforting. I am losing the battle to breathe. "Twenty years ago, I walked into an open mic night and heard a lively tale from an amateur poet. Your words wrapped me up in a vibrant, gentle fever. Your love of poetry grew my own and its warmth still holds me tight. I was in awe of your talent and terrified that I would never show the earth as beautifully as you did that day. Although I haven't seen you on stage since those early days in the trenches, you taught me that the hues of this world are not black but a deep indigo. You showed me how to embody their spirit. My outlook was forever brightened and I will be eternally grateful. Thank you. For my guiding light, I leave Cameron my favorite notebook. May its musings show you the brilliance of the world as you showed me."

The funeral scene dissipates into the drab, intimate basement bar. Plenty of time has passed since then and yet his words still haunt me. A true poet, the real artist, once laid claim to this same room and painted a vibrant scene that knocked me to my knees. I couldn't face his shadow then. I definitely shouldn't try now. Passion is a brutal mistress and every breath is a sign of survival. My eyes pause over the crowd, darkened silence sneaks forward. Green stage lights glow above me, their beams highlighting the age in my hands as I grip the faded lines of the wooden podium. Solemn faces perch like gargoyles over tiny tables in the musty air. The pulsing of my veins bleeds into slow terror. The charcoal microphone glares cloyingly at me, daring me to retreat into the dimly lit room.

I breathe deeply. Lamps speckle the air with muted emeralds as their shadows capture the raging quiet. Tablecloths hold patterned collages of light. The forest of stars trap the black daggers between their rays. Another deep breath in. I bathe in the warm, jade glow from the rafters. The audience waits. Here goes something. I open my fresh new notebook, its cover touching the old, and begin.