Infinities
Infinities
"When you think about it," she breathed, thin arms outstretched in the golden grass, "we're all pretty infinite. Infinitely small, infinitely big, infinitely old, it all just goes on." She rolled onto her side and looked directly into my eyes, sunshine glinting in her hair. She smiled, teeth white against her bronzed skin, dark hair floating in a soft breeze. We were in her favourite spot again, a field just outside town, where the grasses grew long and thick and nobody was there to bother her, she liked it here because it was empty just the grass and the wind and herself, sometimes me. "Hey Jesse, did you know they say the molecules in you have been inside like, Shakespeare and Rembrandt and Kurt Cobain? All your dead heroes? You just get recycled."
She didn't say anything for a while, turning onto her back and gazing up at the clear blue sky, no clouds were to be seen and the sun was burning down on me, summer was catching up. I could hear nothing but the sounds of her breathing and the gentle breeze blowing through some far off trees, there was nothing for miles around but for us and our rusted bicycles. My jeans were becoming hot, sticky and my shirt was sticking to my sweating skin, but it didn't really matter, hers was too, clinging to her soft skin and riding up a little around her waist. Finally she spoke again, "Jesse, what's going to happen when I die?"
I'd met Madelyn two years ago, in the children's ward of the local hospital. I had tumors in my lungs. They thought I was going to die, but the chemicals helped and now I'm getting better, the cancer is going into remission. But she's not, she has leukaemia and it's not going away, her blood is full of poison and she's dying. When I thought I was dying it was horrible, I'd been so upset and tried to shut myself away from everybody, but she's doing so well, like it doesn't even bother her. She has friends and goes out and lives, but sometimes I think it gets to her as well. Sometimes, like now, she wonders about what she's going to miss.
I told her that I didn't know, but I'm sure that if there is a heaven she'll be there with bells on, and that her molecules will find their way into someone and one day they'll tell their friends about dead heroes and the atoms of them. Madelyn had smiled, stretching back and watched as the grasses waved above her head, "They say that's infinity, living on after you're dead. Whether in heaven or hell or as a tiny bit of somebody new." Earlier that week she'd taught me about how the Earth was in constant motion, that the continents were drifting apart and islands were being born and destroyed, everchanging. Madelyn told me about this thing Walt Whitman had written once, about the grass, how it was "the beautiful uncut hair of graves" she had liked the thought of becoming the grass in her lonely field.
Madelyn is wise, far beyond her 17 years, she's known death and yet she chooses to embrace life instead. She's getting weaker though, coughing up blood when she thinks no one's looking, she fainted last week. The doctors say she might not live to see the winter, but I'm praying to a god I'm not sure exists that she does, winter is her favourite season. I hope she sees the snow one more time.
A few weeks later and I'm sitting in the hospital waiting room, waiting for news. It finally comes in a rush of long words and medical terms. Madelyn has pneumonia, this is bad, because of the cancer she can't fight it properly. Her immune system has shut down. She's dying. She was dying before, but it's never been quite this real, this close. The doctors say she'll be gone by the end of the month. When I get to see her, finally, she's propped up on a mess of pillows sipping orange juice and laughing. Once I asked why she wasn't afraid of death, she had said she had been born to die young and tragically, then laughed wildly, hyena-like.
Her last few days hadn't been as sad as I had imagined, although Madelyn was in horrible pain and weaker than ever, she refused to let her family and friends mourn. She had continued to joke and play when she had the strength, asking me to tell her stories when she didn't. I was there when it happened, she had fallen asleep while I was reading Peter Pan to her, she wasn't in pain, just slipped away as she slumbered. I hadn't cried and just called her parents to let them know. We knew she was leaving and there was nothing to be done about it.
The funeral came and went, along with condolences from strangers. I'd ended up in her field, amongst the long grass, all by myself. She'd wanted her ashes scattered here, but her parents insisted on burying her. So, with her family's permission, I brought out some of her belongings, mostly books, to leave here so she won't be quite so bored while she waited. I will always remember her, not as a sickly dying thing, but as she was bright and untameable and impossibly infinite.
She didn't say anything for a while, turning onto her back and gazing up at the clear blue sky, no clouds were to be seen and the sun was burning down on me, summer was catching up. I could hear nothing but the sounds of her breathing and the gentle breeze blowing through some far off trees, there was nothing for miles around but for us and our rusted bicycles. My jeans were becoming hot, sticky and my shirt was sticking to my sweating skin, but it didn't really matter, hers was too, clinging to her soft skin and riding up a little around her waist. Finally she spoke again, "Jesse, what's going to happen when I die?"
I'd met Madelyn two years ago, in the children's ward of the local hospital. I had tumors in my lungs. They thought I was going to die, but the chemicals helped and now I'm getting better, the cancer is going into remission. But she's not, she has leukaemia and it's not going away, her blood is full of poison and she's dying. When I thought I was dying it was horrible, I'd been so upset and tried to shut myself away from everybody, but she's doing so well, like it doesn't even bother her. She has friends and goes out and lives, but sometimes I think it gets to her as well. Sometimes, like now, she wonders about what she's going to miss.
I told her that I didn't know, but I'm sure that if there is a heaven she'll be there with bells on, and that her molecules will find their way into someone and one day they'll tell their friends about dead heroes and the atoms of them. Madelyn had smiled, stretching back and watched as the grasses waved above her head, "They say that's infinity, living on after you're dead. Whether in heaven or hell or as a tiny bit of somebody new." Earlier that week she'd taught me about how the Earth was in constant motion, that the continents were drifting apart and islands were being born and destroyed, everchanging. Madelyn told me about this thing Walt Whitman had written once, about the grass, how it was "the beautiful uncut hair of graves" she had liked the thought of becoming the grass in her lonely field.
Madelyn is wise, far beyond her 17 years, she's known death and yet she chooses to embrace life instead. She's getting weaker though, coughing up blood when she thinks no one's looking, she fainted last week. The doctors say she might not live to see the winter, but I'm praying to a god I'm not sure exists that she does, winter is her favourite season. I hope she sees the snow one more time.
A few weeks later and I'm sitting in the hospital waiting room, waiting for news. It finally comes in a rush of long words and medical terms. Madelyn has pneumonia, this is bad, because of the cancer she can't fight it properly. Her immune system has shut down. She's dying. She was dying before, but it's never been quite this real, this close. The doctors say she'll be gone by the end of the month. When I get to see her, finally, she's propped up on a mess of pillows sipping orange juice and laughing. Once I asked why she wasn't afraid of death, she had said she had been born to die young and tragically, then laughed wildly, hyena-like.
Her last few days hadn't been as sad as I had imagined, although Madelyn was in horrible pain and weaker than ever, she refused to let her family and friends mourn. She had continued to joke and play when she had the strength, asking me to tell her stories when she didn't. I was there when it happened, she had fallen asleep while I was reading Peter Pan to her, she wasn't in pain, just slipped away as she slumbered. I hadn't cried and just called her parents to let them know. We knew she was leaving and there was nothing to be done about it.
The funeral came and went, along with condolences from strangers. I'd ended up in her field, amongst the long grass, all by myself. She'd wanted her ashes scattered here, but her parents insisted on burying her. So, with her family's permission, I brought out some of her belongings, mostly books, to leave here so she won't be quite so bored while she waited. I will always remember her, not as a sickly dying thing, but as she was bright and untameable and impossibly infinite.