We Used to See with Wide Eyes

My eyes had wandered around the room, trying to ignore the soft footfalls making their path to my booth. It always made me sad to see her now, that vacant expression scared me. She wasn't the woman who had practically helped to raise me but she still looked every bit like her and I miss who she used to be.

Staring blankly into space now dominated her belittled existence and her innocence reminded me of a child… nothing could shake the walls standing strong in her mind. It's as if everything was perfect… as if everything was normal.

Every time the question was the same, in that same breathy cordial tone with only the hint of recognition, "Parker, won't you bring Liam around? Goodness knows I haven't seen him in awhile." I always force myself to tell her he promised he would come tomorrow… but she'd forget, and obviously he wouldn’t come…. he couldn't.

I had to look up when she pressed a cool glass into my hand… and asked her question. I said my robotic, mumbled response and felt that pang of sorrow in my heart but as always, I buried it.

Now, she rocked back and forth on her heels, hovering like a faithful dog, waiting for me to give my opinion. Her complexion was pallid from the lack of sun and her entire being gave off a sense of wispiness, I could just imagine a gust of wind sweeping her up into the clouds. Her small, slightly frizzy curls cascaded down and spilled over her round shoulders creating the slight Ms. Frizzle look that gave her that benevolent, but frazzled appearance. Her eyes were soft and kind with small lines around the edges. They were fixed upon me, waiting for the stroke of a failure or the jubilation of a success. I felt pressured by the confirmation that I was supposed to give out, yet I could already tell that I wouldn't like it.

I could already see that the greatest offense had been committed.

The orange juice had pulp in it.

I swirled my straw around, feeling revolted as the small bits of stringing residue rose to the top of the glass and again sunk to the depths. I knew she wanted my opinion.

It would never cross my mind to tell her the truth, I would lie… or tell the half truth.

I screwed up my eyes and stilled my gag reflexes as I took a large gulp of the stringy orange juice. I managed not to shudder as I felt the mixture move through my mouth. I should have to be my own strainer.

I swallowed quickly, swiping my tongue over my teeth to rid any resilient strings and turned a smile in her direction and told her in a soft voice, "It tasted wonderful. Thank you, Carla." I stood up and took her by the hand, "Now, come on, you know you're not supposed to be down here." She frowned. "I'm sure Lola is worried sick."

After a second of weak resistance, her papery hand stopped attempting to struggle out of mine and she docilely trailed behind me as I made my way behind the counter and through the door labeled "Private." I was careful to slow my steps so Carla couldn’t trip on her long bathrobe, and then made my way upstairs.

In all the time that's I've been coming to Mac's this apartment hasn't changed.

Pictures adorned the walls, testament to Carla's love of decorating. The entire living room gave off the cozy and homey vibe, one that Mac hadn't ever changed, even when Carla started to lose it. It held the same time warp feeling… like I was in high school again. I miss those days. Currently, and how's its always been, everything is organized in a clutter.

Now, books stacks on papers lay on all surfaces, a revealing factor of Carla's favorite activity: coloring.

Sound like someone you've heard of? The only difference is that despite the fact that her mind has slipped she still retains that steady hand and her drawing skills of before.

"Oh thanks heavens!" Lola's voice was laced with a panic that only could stem from a mother who's lost her child, and although Lola might not be Carla's biological mother, she's taken care of her ever since she started having problems.

A shorter and stouter woman around the age of 65, Lola, bustled into the room deftly leading Carla from me and sitting her down in front of a penguin documentary playing on the older, boxy TV. There were a few soft cries of complaint but once the TV caught her eye, she was occupied, staring at the little penguins with a childlike wonder.

Lola turned to me with a grandmotherly smile, "Bless you, dear, I had to use the restroom for one minute and I didn't anticipate a commercial break. She gave me such a scare."

I gave her a small smile as if to say, "No problem," and after glancing once back to Carla, I turned and slowly made my way down the wooden stairs to the diner. My feet dragged as I shuffled back to my booth by the window, ignoring the curious stares of the other patrons.

I sat down, and stared blankly at the coloring book in front of me. Its clean pages were soon to be marred by my horrendous coloring skills and then thrown away in frustration. I was getting better, I could see the difference but it would be a very long time before I could every draw like I did before… if I ever could do that again. Even then it wouldn’t be the same.

The worst part of all this was the disappointment… it left a bitter taste in my mouth and sent my heart plunging with wistful thoughts.

I used to be an eternal optimist – nothing could get me down because I could always find something good in every bad thing… but this time, I couldn't find any good.

Brendon, a small thought prodded at the back of my mind.

Brendon? I don't even know how or if he even fits into my life. My first impression is that he'll stick around till the novelty of me wears off and then, like everyone else, he'll leave. He won't be able to handle this "new" Parker.

My trust in people, especially those who have been closest to me, has been shattered to many times to count. Mac has never wavered though, he didn't withdraw from me like my parents… he's the one I would go to with anything.

I don't know if I have it in me to let someone close again, only to be abandoned. So if I keep him at an arm length – I won't hurtas much when he leaves.

Feeling now, thoroughly depressed, I reached to my bag and grabbed a book – hoping it would take my mind from my stupid life. The beginning of the second to last chapter caught my eyes.

"There's something unsettling about the wind. Something that lets you know things are not so described and organized. People attach words like clean, refreshing to the wind, but those are words striving to tame something that scares us at the edges. Try not to be so banal, so condemned. It's more like, purify, scour. The wind doesn't fuck around."

I wish people didn't fuck around.

"You're standing somewhere, firmly you, with all the thoughts, feelings, markings of who you've always been. A wind rustles over your ears, pulses against skin. And suddenly everything's different, everything's possible. Each gust brings a trace of things far away and unseen, pushing over you, through you. You're powerful. You can do anything. Change smashes through an instant until nothing looks the same."

What a load of bull shit. Change doesn't always "empower" you. It can also fuck you up. They're right about one thing… nothing looks the same.

"Think I'm exaggerating?"

Yes, I responded to the non-existent character, feeling slightly insane.

"Then why do we stop what we're doing when that first breath of wind brushed the path?"

I don't know.

"Why do we look up, out, meeting it full in the face? Why do we stay until our cheeks feel like the surface of glass?"

My thoughts were silenced. They're right.

"A biting wind, a warm breeze, wind slung along with ice, or flying leaves, or tossed-out paper plates. They whisper, they shout – "move with us, unlash, fly."

The realization came to me – it was so obvious, yet terrifying at the same time. Everything is going to change.

Brendon is my wind.