Life Among the Pastures

Dear Gregory

I apologize for the delay for writing these letters since auditions were just around the corner. The moonlight broke over the only window in my two-story house while my hands stiffened and quivered, unable to draw out a single thought into words. Like the nervous wreck I was, I scraped a few words on the parchment paper, and the thoughts would escape from my grasp. I would nibble the tip of the pen and fill my mouth with the metallic flavor and leave the tip with concave dents of teeth marks. There was this one time that my lips would be covered in the raven black ink, and my husband thought that I was "going through a phase" of being gothic or emo. He would think that I was method-acting and maybe was for fully immersing myself in a character, but I wasn't.

    I didn't have the slightest inclination of the dark sides you embraced during your university years or why you appeared the way you do. Do you still paint your nails black? Do you still walk around in a punk-leather jacket to petrify the passing folks in public? Are you still wearing that Black Sabbath t-shirt that you absolutely adored and wore it until it attracted a swarm of flies? The first time I saw you in that Black Sabbath t-shirt was the following day in class again. It was that time when Professor Luden of the history department gave a profound lecture on the falsehood and misconceptions that lied within the founding of America. The auditorium echoed, like a desolate cavern, while his footsteps made rhythmic music against the marble floor, ricocheting across the auditorium as if he was trying to assert dominance among the herd of listening sheeps that followed their heads behind a shepherd.

    When class dismissed, I scurried beside you while your awareness of your surroundings were muffled by headphones with distorted loud music that nearly deafened your ears. It took you a few seconds to become aware of your new friend scampering up to you.

    "What?" you hissed with the heavy hint of impatience behind those words. The way your nose would ring red like Rudolph spread a smirk across my face unintentionally.

    "How's that lecture?"

    You drew a blank stare in the silence that gave away your bewilderment.

           "The lecture," I continued. "Y'know. Christopher Columbus coming to America?"
    "I didn't need to listen."

            "What... what do you mean?"

    "Consuming knowledge of something about a man stealing a country is just wicked and illogical. See, this is what's wrong with history. History is biased since it only gives credit to those that have benefited the country and can overlook the fact of misdeeds that person has done. At this point, we are just glorifying him after overlooking the fact that he enslaved countless natives."

    I thought about it for a second.

    "But do you think America would be America without Christopher Columbus?"

     "No, but everything will go back to normal," you said and walked off, leaving me stranded in thought while I let those words sink in. To this day, those words still ring strong in my head. Everything will go back to normal. What is normal? Does it mean going back to Virginia and live with my father again or still look forward to seeing my friend, Midori, with her nose in a book? At that moment, the vivid imagery of Midori was painted in my head after you said those words as if those words were the starting brush strokes to that memory. In chemistry class, she would block reality's sounds and plug her ears with old classics by Neil Young, Bob Dylan, and---of course---Cat Stevens. Before she left for Japan, she would isolate herself during the lunch period and lean against the roof of the school, bobbing her head to Cat Steven songs. I just happened to find her one day under a bright blue sky while the clouds swooped towards the east as if they were ushering me to befriend her. For some reason, the sky seemed brighter than before, and the clouds were prettier than before. Maybe those things were tell-tale signs of fate. Leaning against the railing were her black hair that resisted against the wind blowing east as her strands swept in a meadowy grace, blowing toward the west.

       "What are you doing out here?" I asked her. She took off one of her ear pieces and turned towards the direction of my voice. A smile grew on her face. Her smile was distinct since she had pronounced dimples like dents in the universe. Those dimples accentuated her smile and came off as a rainbow of affection, equivalent to being smothered in a mother's hug.

    "Just spending time with nature," she answered.

    "Nature?"

    "The wind, the humming of birds, and the dancing leaves. Sometimes it's good to take a step back to begin to appreciate and take in everything that nature has bestowed before your very-own eyes."

     She lifted her head to the sky again and searched the sky for answers.

          "That's why I like listening to music while being with nature. I feel like some of the songs summarize how beautiful this world could be if you look hard enough, just like everything around us."

        "So, what are you listening to?" I asked.

    She unhooked the earpiece dangling from her ear and extended it to me.

           "Wanna give it a listen?"

My hands acted on their own and, before I realized, stuffed the earpiece into my ear while the song "Wild World" by Cat Stevens played. That's why I liked the song. Something about that song was reminiscent of the different outlook on life that Midori taught me, exploring beyond the bounds of academics and school. She didn't have the best grades, but I sometimes still feel overwhelmed by jealousy for her vast knowledge of the world. That's what you reminded me of when I first saw you reading Norwegian Wood. I had that feeling you would teach me to see the world in a different light with an open mind. That's why I approached you because you reminded me of Midori. You reminded me of home.

As you walked off and blended yourself among the distant dots of students, a book rested on the tip of my foot. I picked it up, and it was a book you borrowed from the library called Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami.

And, that was when I dreamed of the pastures.