SUPERNOVA

If our dreams are small glimpses of paradise, then who was dreaming
the paradise within which I wandered? The one which she led me to?
There visits us a moment in our adolescence when we recognize a
spiraling black shape at the center of the universe, in the very pit of our
imagination. The walls erected by our parents are not tall enough to block
our bounding curiosity. I peaked over the edge one sun-gilded summer day
at camp in northern Minnesota. Her brown eyes stole their pale re from
the Sun.
Tag or something. Capture the ag. I was in some kind of safe zone
where the opposing team couldnt tag me. I knew her from tennis lessons
in the city, and she waited for me to make a move. Auburn hair, her skin
freckled and tan in the heat. She mocked me as I tip-toed towards the
divider, poked my toe across and felt a tremor of fear percolate up towards
my heart. Some of my teammates had made a break for it. She ignored
them. I didnt understand anything. I didnt understand why after months of
blushing whenever she looked in my direction, of stealing sun-kissed
impressions of her at the water cooler, she had turned her attention
towards me. There exists a kind of randomness that settles upon us, a
randomness that for the sake of clarity resembles what we call fate.
I ran, quads swelling and blood lling every convenient artery. If
osmosis demands molecular balance between the opposing sides of a
permeable membrane, then happiness requires the balance between
stone-cold reality and what we believe should be different about that reality.
Osmosis is for the halcyons. My difference amounted to bliss, the
starkest contrast. Of course she chased me (of course, like I was owed
something). I had no conception of the destination for which I ran. Shear
movement, like rolling a rock up a hill only to see it roll back down. The
lake glistened before me. The gems of northern Minnesota amounted to
the lakes, sanctied in the Boundary Waters. Canoes studded the water.
The camps main lodge bordered the water, a palace born from the woods.
I fell. Not so much from fatigue or injury or anything that the petty
words of an excuse might validate. I fell because I chose to fall. I think it
was a choice. My will could only get me so far. The romantics remind us of
the union of two wills, of one and one, of something that transcends the
personal pettiness of our own vision of truth. I fell and she tagged me,
triumphant.
Those were the days in my early teen years when the stars glowed a
little brighter than they do now. It was then that dragons existed. The
particulars seemed to matter the most. A shallow conversation of girls at
dusk amongst friends meant more than the importunity of legacy. It was
bliss that tempted me, the sure-re supernova of a single moment that
promised nothing after it. I wished absolute happiness existed in a single
moment that would permeate the furthest corners of eternity. And yet the
sun also rises. Homework was due and practice interviews are a no-
brainer now.
So much left and I was tired. I saw her at school. It is childish to
reminisce about what we felt in school. Call me a child, call me nostalgic,
call me desperate. We put on armor in adulthood, armor that even the
loosest interpretation of God cannot penetrate.
A high school party. A party and I was descending. There is very
little to say, nothing to remark upon of a relationship that sprung from any
kind of union. I hate to be so theoretical. Its a shame that theory crops up
where our desires fail. I had descended steps that seemed to perspire
heavily as if the dew point had reached the curious point of grime. A conic
luminescence distributed by a lonely lamp. A ping-pong table. Before long
she kissed me and moved on. She didnt seem to be kissing anyone else.
Not that it mattered.
A date occurs much like we anticipate the rising of the sun. Only a
date doesnt have to rise. Once its set it may founder like an ancient,
decrepit ship. To see it puncture the cloud of doubt is like witnessing a
rebirth, spotting a newborn phoenix.
I hate to say this is the conclusion of events. The funerary grounds of
an after-dark gas station. The marquee gas prices ooded the car with a
sense of an improving economy. I went inside looking for candy and soda-
pop, anything to spoil what I feared would be a tepid main-course. The
candy aisle shown with a peculiar kind of hopeful light. The skittles, M&Ms,
and Sour Patch Kids. I picked them all. The man at the register gave me a
once-in-a-lifetime look of approval. He gleaned the aura of bliss.
Outside some commotion upset the repose of the car. She stayed
inside, talking with someone at the window. He was agitated. My
approach precipitated her exit. A bolt of curiosity had made my feet rather
eet. I threw my arms around her and turned her towards the car, barely
able to vocalize a few words of pathetic worry.
I thought we had a future, I heard him saying. I thought we had
found something. He thought he had found bliss.
A blade protruded from the sleeve of a hooded sweatshirt in an act of
magic and was thrust forwards, carving material. We fell upon the
concrete. The white light of the marquee ooded our horizontal silhouettes,
shapes not really people at that moment but rather an amalgamation of fear
and dread.
I lay on top of her, staring into the the pale re of her eyes. She
returned my gaze for the rst time.
You cant die, I said. Weve barely had a chance to talk.
Her hand touched my hip, reached upwards towards my chest where
it tightened around something precious.
Youve been stabbed. Youre bleeding. She raised her hand to my
eyes where I recognized the stains of the truest red.
I survived that night. I never saw her again. I died that night.