Minnesota Goodbyes

Entry #40

Finals week, no matter what anyone else says, is the most bizarre mix of abject misery and near-complete freedom. Yes, there are the time-and-place constraints of exams, but there are no classes to attend, no homework to turn in, no lessons to tune out.

There's this sense of time accordioning in and out, expanding larger and larger, before contracting again. Or at least that's how it felt last year. (Last year, Clair and I camped out in the library for hours at a time. More than once, until it shut down at three in the morning. Whispers and coffee from thermoses and jotting notes. It could never end and it had to end.)

This year, I'll pass hardly any (if any) of my classes, so what's the point of studying? The light calls me again, and I watch it linger coolly through the day, only to dissipate to near-blackness at night. The window glazed over with frost, and the light comes through warped, and these are the things I pay attention to as I wait for this day to be over (to wait for the next day to be over, to wait for the next day to be over...)

And my mind ravages itself with imaginings. The light, the dark, the grey filter over the world. All spun together with my thoughts, absurd as they are.

And I can't stop them.

There are always the obvious worries (Clair, the probability that I failed most of my exams, always Clair), but even those are swept away by the cruelty of my imaginings.

It's like this:

There are wild animals at my door. I can almost see them, drained of color, prowling on the stoop, licking at the windows. Their breath freezes crystalline on the glass, and I can almost convince myself that they exist.

(Wolves bone-pale with tongues lolling, moonlit foxes yipping, wildcats padding with footsteps soft as shadow.)

(Their melancholy voices ring through the night, singing to the stars, crying for the dead. The calls are stronger than the traffic, the city-noise that never quite disappears.)

(And even louder than their mourning cries is this: It isn't real. My head fighting with itself, imagining beasts that aren't there.)

(And sharp teeth. Fierce jaws, full of icicle fangs, snapping at passerby.)

It's not real. It's not. They don't scratch at my door.

It's not real. Just my head. Just my head. It's not real.

Sometimes, I wish the wolves were real.

And the light creeps through the window again, and even though I didn't sleep, everything can be called new again.

So I'm exhausted by the time my dad comes to pick me up for winter break, when he hefts my laundry basket of clothes into the back seat of his pickup, and when I lug out my backpack. He's a smart guy, my dad, so he doesn't try to get me to talk, but he lets out a constant stream of what's been going on in his life (his ice-fishing trip, work things, thinking about getting a newer truck and, maybe if I passed my classes next semester, he's let me buy this one off him. A wink.)

It's a different kind of engagement, the kind where I can listen to something without commenting, like a soft melody or a child's lullaby. Dipped in comfort and beforeness. This sounds stupid (I can't phrase it any better, simply because I'm still too tired and can't think up any better words.), but it feels like he's, I dunno, hugging me with his words. Like it's okay that I don't have anything to say, that I am wrapped in my own consciousness, that I just hurt.

Why he hasn't left, hasn't given up on me like Nick, is beyond me, but I lay my head against his shoulder and let the drive lull me away from the pain, just for a little bit. I'm grateful for that slice of time in a way that makes me choke up.

He kept the hurt away, like dads are supposed to. And for the moment, it's enough.