Shoelaces

Interlude: Jump Discontinuities

I'm in this whiteness forever.

Until I'm not.

Suddenly, I'm in a hospital room.

I don't know if "in" is the correct word.

But I don't know how to describe my presence.

So, I'll just say I'm in a hospital room.

A lady lies on the hospital bed. I almost recognize her. Like she's an old friend. There are two nurses by her side. At least, I think they are nurses. There's also a man next to the lady lying down, holding her hand. The man is also an old photograph. The woman looks like she is screaming, her face red in agony with beads of sweat dripping down her forehead. Her hospital gown is pushed up to her waist, as one of the nurses stands in between her legs. The man gripping her hand leans his head down to kiss the woman's hand. They must be in love. The nurse that is not between her legs seems to be saying something. Push, push, push. The man and woman are no longer old friends. They are my parents. This is my birth. How am I- The nurse that is between her legs reaches down, then picks up this tiny creature, covered in red, scrunched up face, crying. I still can't hear it. It's a boy. It's me. The nurse takes the baby over to a side table as the other nurse follows. If I tried, I could see what they were doing. But I don't try. Instead, I look at my mother and father, them looking at each other. I'm alive? I'm-

White again. Forever.

Until there is no more white.

This time I'm "in" my house. I recognize it. It's a little bit tidier than I last saw it. Less scratches on the floor. Less marks on the doors. Less personality. Less life lived. I look at the staircase as if I know something is coming. As if I'm forced to. As if it's the only thing I can do. But I would choose to, even if it wasn't. A small boy walks down the stairs gripping his mother's hand. He takes each stair carefully, his legs too short to move comfortably. He's wearing a blue polo shirt and khaki shorts that are too big for him. His mother looks down at him with love, wearing a floral dress. They both reach the end of the staircase. The boy has a large smile that eclipses his face. The mother has one of pride. One of moving too fast. One of just yesterday. One of all the tomorrows. The mother walks over to the door as the boy follows slowly. His legs are too short to walk that fast. But he knows somebody he'll be able to. Someday he'll be able to truly live. The mother hands him a backpack filled with binders and papers and folders and pencils and pens. The boy takes the backpack. My backpack. Our backpack. He heads to our first day of school while I get sucked into the whiteness forever.

Until I'm no longer in white.

I seem to be "in" a classroom. There are colorful posters lining the wall. The presidents of the United States. A map of the same country. Infographics detailing the proper use of certain English elements. Where to put a period. What a verb is. The classroom rules saying to be respectful and kind. If only all obeyed them. A boy runs into the classroom. He has tears running down his face. He's missing a shoe. A new shoe actually. Now, he only has one. He got them yesterday. What will his mother say? The teacher of the classroom turns around, as a frown instantly appears on her face. She runs over to the small boy, asking what happened. Asking if he is hurt. Asking and asking. The boy doesn't respond, yet the teacher knows all of his answers. The teacher tells the boy to sit down, to make himself comfortable. He can stay here for lunch today. She notices he's missing his shoe. She walks over to the printer in the classroom next to a poster of the proper use of scissors, and hands the boy one of the documents she was printing out. It's a multiplication table. She says that she will be right back. She says she is getting his shoe back. The boy wipes the tears and snot from his face using his jacket sleeve and looks at the paper in front of him. The numbers comfort us. We forget about the other boys who pushed him and stole his shoe. The boy gets lost in the numbers. Time passes quickly as he multiplies which means the teacher comes back with his shoe quickly. The boy is happy now. The white of the teeth of his smile send me back to white.

Until no more white.

Am I "in" a store this time? I think I am. Customers walk by pushing their carts, picking up items to purchase, use, then get rid of. It's a department store, one that has anything and everything. Clothing, food, makeup, phones, suitcases, pillows, toys. Everything. A pre-teen walks with his mother in the store. The mother pulls out a list on her phone, telling the boy what they need to get. They weave through the aisles. The preteen tells his mother that he wants to look for something. That he'll be back in one second. The mother says that she'll still be here. He walks off. I don't know what he's looking for. He weaves himself through the aisles, until he stops in the middle of one. Something caught his attention. He wasn't looking for it though. He's in the men's clothing section, a shortcut to get from one side to the other. Specifically, he's in the men's underwear section. He knows something now that he didn't know before. But it'll still take some time for us to realize we already knew it. The preteen walks away as I'm shoved back into the white.

No more white.

Oh, I know this one right away. I'm "in" the theatre. The crowd sits in the audience looking up at the bright stage. A large group of actors all take a bow together. Once they run off, some individuals come up. A girl in a wheelchair leans over to bow in her seat. A lady with a crazy hairdo. A man with a goat face. A man wearing green. A man made of tin. Then, a man made of straw comes onto the stage to bow. Fiyero. The actor bows, smiling wider than ever before. The audience cheers for him, and he soaks it up like a sponge. A man in the audience with a killer smile and a killer jawline is screaming and clapping wildly. The actor sees, almost crying. He's always almost crying. The man of straw finally backs up. A girl wearing all white is next. And, finally, a girl painted green. Back to white.

Until I'm not in white anymore.

But no. No. Please put me back into the white. Please. No. I don't want to be here. Please.

Anywhere but here.

But I don't go back to white.

Instead, I'm stuck here at this intersection. Frozen in time. A truck is stopped in the middle of the intersection. A crushed boy and his crushed bicycle are way up the street. Far away from where he was originally. If you saw the boy, you would think he was in pain. But I didn't feel anything. Only saw white.

There's another boy. He's collapsed on the sidewalk. He's on his knees, with tears falling out of his face. His face is contorted in a way for him to scream "no" as loud as he can. I'm glad I can't hear anything. This boy looks like he is in pain. He is in pain. Santi.

Please. Please put me back into the white. Anything but this.

I guess that worked, for I'm in white again.

Until I'm not.

I'm back "in" my house. A sophomore aged girl watches TV on the couch. A woman dances in the kitchen, trying to cook a dish. A man sits at the dinner table, reading some book about the art of breathing. The girl threatens to call for pizza, but the woman says that her food will be good. She's trying a new recipe. The man tells the girl to respect her mother. Everything is interrupted when the woman's phone starts ringing. She walks over to it, letting her food still cook, and sees an unknown number. She still trusts the world. So, she answers it.

The voice on the phone tells her something that not even her worst nightmares could produce. She collapses onto the ground, dropping her phone. Both her and the phone shatter.

I want to hug the woman. I want to hug my mom. I really want to hug my mom. I would if I was in my house. But no, I'm only "in" my house.

Not for long.

Once again, I'm in white.