The Page Horizon

I’m looking down at the world from atop the globe and for a very long time, it is quiet. The glass is thick and clear, and small flurries of snow are whirling this way and that, settling down upon mountains and rooftops until ever again, it spins. I am happy here, but I do not know what that means. I do not understand the absence of joy, not yet, and so I cannot know how tightly I should cling to it. I am you, though I do not know what that means. I do not yet understand the absence of everyone else.

This is the first word, the first steps, the first time you’ve felt rain on your face. You are excited but you are also frustrated. For the first time, you have a question. You are crying because you have a vast ocean of questions but you do not know how to ask them. I wish I could tell you that you will learn when you are older, but even then, you will sometimes be too afraid to ask and you will cry because you are frustrated. You have learned just enough to imagine all that which you do not understand, and you are frightened.

You are holding a crayon in your fist and dragging it across the paper. For the first time, I can speak. I am excited, but I am also frustrated. There are so many things I want to say to you, but every time I speak it appears as random scribbles. Your work is hung up on the fridge and you are happy, so perhaps you understood me after all.

Crayon has become pencil, and you are asked to sit up straight. You learn to scribble lines and agree upon their meaning. I watch you scratch the lead into the paper as you take possession of the words. Your handwriting is beautiful in that it is unique. You have written your name many hundreds of times now and so it is yours.

You have blown out candles and so you are older. So many candles, in fact, that you are now responsible for yourself. Wrapped in colorful paper, you are given a book. The pages are bound in black leather, but they do not contain a single word. For the first time, you have been given emptiness and you are grateful. You have begun to understand the value of absence, though you have heard it called potential. The book feels heavy in our hands because it bears the weight of every story yet to be written. When we are alone, you open up the cover and set your pen to the page. Though you know not what I am, for the first time, you know that I am here. Deep within you, you wish to hear my name, but it matters very little. I have been called things such as God, Muse, or Spirit, but I live only through you. Perhaps, you will understand in time.

We work in tandem, now. Your words find high praise wherever they are read, but you only accept half of the honor. Page after page, you press the pen down and I can breathe in the ink. The story extends like ribbon, unspooling until the leather binding can barely hold it all. In candlelight, you sigh and let the cover close. There is a great silence, if only for a moment, and within the primordial soup between the covers of the notebook, the spark of life is formed.

In less than a moment under the downpouring rain, you are confronted with absence. I did not know how tightly to cling to it, and so I could not prepare you. The damage to the car was irreparable, as was the damage to your father. He reached an arm across her to keep her safe. She’s in surgery long into the morning. I am here, but you cannot feel me. In the waiting room, I can hear you praying.

Pen has become loud, clacking keyboard. You are told to sit up straight, but you must hunch forward to see the small printed numbers as you punch them into the keys. The monitor buzzes, a swarm of parasitic insects who feed inside of the honeycomb of cubicles. You do not look for me anymore. You blow out candles which you lit yourself just to return once again in the morning.

The road is very long and entirely empty. Your eyes drift slowly down, the only time you find yourself able to sleep. I have tried to reach you, but the black leather book sits in a drawer with only the company of half-dead batteries and rubber bands. You park in the last row; someone has taken your usual spot. The nurse at the desk knows who you are, and she hands you a small plastic badge. Only moments after you sit down, you drift away to the rhythmic beeping of the monitor. It is dark when you startle awake. Do not be worried, I was keeping her company while you rested. When the doctor comes in, he does so with a memorized apology already picked out. His words are kind but well-rehearsed.

You type the numbers into each box, but you are not handed a new pile of work. Instead, you are handed an envelope with a check. The man you work for asks you to sign some papers. In the reflection of his glasses, you see the dark shadows of your face and the patchy stubble down your cheeks. You have written your name many thousands of times, and you scribble the date just beside it. The man thanks you, and wishes you well. His words are kind but well-rehearsed.

The hospital has called you again. They ask what you would like to do. You are too afraid to answer, and you are frustrated because you are crying. You search for a lighter and pull open a drawer filled with discarded things. At the bottom, there is a small black notebook. You lift it up and set it on the counter, taking the lighter which lay hidden underneath it and drawing a fresh pack from the carton above the fridge. When you step outside, you feel the rain on your face. I want to call to you, but I have no home in a cigarette. I am so sorry. I did not hold tightly enough and now I’ve nothing to cling to at all.

He’s got to get on his way, but your roommate hands you some mail before he goes. He’s smiling as he leaves and says you can thank him when he returns. There are two envelopes; the first is from the hospital, and it reads Final Notice in bold lettering. It repeats the sentiments of the various voice mails left on your phone, though this one has come with a bill attached. The second envelope is printed stationery from a publishing house in New York. The note inside is handwritten, and it congratulates you on your story. At the bottom of the letter, a man who you have never met offers you a twenty thousand dollar advance if you decide to publish. You take out your phone and return the most recent missed call.

You are thousands of feet above the earth, looking down at the world from atop the globe. The notebook’s leather does not shine like it once did, but it is smooth to the touch. Flipping from one page to the next, you press your pen to paper and once more, I can breathe. When the plane touches down, every margin is filled with sideways notes and musings from a part of you that you had forgotten about. You are whisked away in a long black car and taken from here to there, your feet never seeming to touch the ground. Someone hands you a contract and asks you to write your name. You have written your name so many times now that it seems to belong to everyone else, filed away in cabinets and drawers. The man hands you a check and wishes you well. You turn and wish him the same.

The moment she opens her eyes, you rush to her bedside. She is ghostly pale and thin, but she is overwhelmed with joy. The medicine is powerful and she does not talk much, but I let her know that you were by her side as soon as they’d let you. The doctor says that they haven’t seen any signs of rejection, but that she has a long journey through rehab ahead of her. You are with her now, and you watch her take her first steps, supporting her just as she had done.

The first thing she says when you step inside is that she likes the windows. It’s bright in here, and she loves the sunlight. You like them too, though it feels a bit empty without any furniture. She tells you about when she and your father first lived together, and how they would sit on overturned milk crates for dinner. Inside her, a different heart is beating than the one which beat beside you back then. She smiles, and you are smiling too. She reaches into her purse for her medicine when remembers that she brought you something. A housewarming present, she says, and she hands you a gift about the size of a picture frame. Tearing away the brightly colored paper, you find a black leather notebook. You tell her that it's just like the one she got you as a kid, and she nods. It is filled with emptiness, but you call it potential. You are crying now because you have no other way to tell her how much you love her. I can promise you that she knows.

When we are alone, you open the cover and run your hand across the smooth surface of the page. You close your eyes, and a light flickers within you. Small flurries of snow are whirling against the window as your hand drifts across the paper. Your handwriting is beautiful in that it is the exact point where we are closest together. At the horizon of the page, I can reach you. We work in tandem, and I am happy. You are happy now, too, and finally, you know who I am.