Cantilever

He looked down at his phone, checking his bank account to reaffirm his reality. Four weeks ago: +$20,000.00. He expected his eagerness to return, a state he remembered seeming infinite. Instead, he watched from the back of his mind as his vision sunk past his hand, through the floor below and deep into the ground.

Boxes lined the walls by the front door, revealing one path down the hallway and another into the bedroom beside it. Six years in this apartment had seemed to pass at no longer than or two. Such a typical feeling, but one he had become familiar with as waves of nostalgia grew into a natural constant, passively fluxing in his thoughts.

“Which of these are you taking with you?” He looked up to see his mother gesturing to a pile of boxes in front of her.

“Boxes are storage; I’m only taking the duffle and suitcase,” he said, looking to a comparably small section had separated them into. His throat tightened and a pressure settled in his chest. Everything from his life he decided to take with him, fitting in just two bags. Hardly anything but essentials. He figured a new life must make room for new beginnings.

“Are you sure?” his mother asked. He nodded. “Okay then, I’m gonna go get some coffee first. Do you want anything?”

“No thanks, I have some tea from earlier. I’ll get started while you’re out.”

His mother closed the door and the room transformed into a hollow vessel of silence, muting sounds of birds and children playing outside, while inside echoing anything louder than his own breath.

At his feet was a medium size box packed beyond its lid with books, binders, and other records that stacked well. Lifting it from the floor, he heard the clap of a notebook hitting the floorboards ricochet off the stripped walls. He had one of the same make in his back pocket with a firm black cover, no bigger than his hand.

He placed the book on the kitchen table and took a sip from his now cold tea as he sat in the chair next to the window where sunlight could embrace him. Taking the newly started book from his pocket, he held old and new two up to one another. They were same book, though one had clearly seen more days. Flipping through every page were notes he had taken from the project he had dedicated the notebook to, mostly taken in rough sketches. The project was a cantilevering structure that jetted out from a cliffside looking over the eastern ocean. It was an elegant composition, constructed out of just three planes; two arranged horizontal to each other connected only by the cliffside and the third plane, striking through the base of each one. Along the handrail stretching the entire length of the structure, cables were tied from floor to ceiling spaced several feet from each other arranging a frame of frames. His back, hot from the sun, switched to cool itself as the feeling of bristles broke into a blitz up to top of his head from where he sat. He had come to know what was written in this book to an intimate level rarely comparable.

“I remember you,” he breathed.

In the first pages, strokes of the pen were quick. Lines glanced over one another, looking to find a connection. Mostly meaningless scribbles. Fumbling geometries that could have produced something more than they had amounted to were only remembered in the book as fleeting opportunities. As lines continued to cross, bonds between them grew into real ideas having their own small story in the process, forming a record of flirtatious ballads that took an entire page or two to themselves. One page marked the end of this game. An explosion of passion filled the page in lines and extrusions interlocking, never getting tired of the dance. This was not a momentary passing; it was a romance. Like dominos falling and blades cutting through paper, the process was infinite and could appear so even through a narrow lens. The pen shared secret words with the page and in return the page shared secrets of its own, allowing for a magic to reveal itself. Beauty now presented itself in every mark, faults and breakthroughs alike. It was a love that could not be broken. A love worth remembering.

He stepped back into the hallway holding the book in his hands, fanning through cream pages that had become soft and molded to his fingers. This familiarity which he understood to be a part of him drew breath into his lungs, sharpening his focus. Crouching, he set the book back in its place and lifted the box, this time being sure nothing would fall out.

There was a knock followed by his mother walking through the front door.

“I thought you were going to get started while I was out.” Steam from her fresh coffee glowed as it floated in light passing through doorway.

“I was. I just realized I forgot something,” he said with a smile as he placed the box down next to the duffle bag.