Memory

Note: Jack’s name isn’t Jack. And I wrote this in the present tense. And I still don’t know how to use the italics yet. So I put what should be italicized in slashes, like /this/. And I think this is too long. I tried to make it shorter. But it seemed better like this. Oh, well. I was a dumb third-grader, btw.

Memory: or otherwise entitled:
How I Broke My Arm

I’m nine, naïve and quiet with an excess of illogic. I’m swinging on the swingset on the rubber playground outside Sycamore- like I always do after school. A friend of mine named Jack is with me, like he usually is, talking with me.

“I want to be a ghost,” he says with relish, swinging determinedly higher. “Ghosts are cool.”

“Yeah, but what would you do if you were one?” I ask dubiously.

“I dunno,” Jack replies thoughtfully. His skinny hands clutch the insulated chain that connects the swing to the blue swingset.

“/I’d/ haunt the school,” I announce, and grin. I hadn’t thought of that until just now, and I’m pleased with the brilliance of my idea. “Except I don’t know how to be a ghost.” I add, disappointed. I look hopefully at Jack, who knows about things like this.

“It’s easy,” Jack tells me, grinning back. His swing catches in time to mine, but neither of us mention it, like we usually do. We’re too engrossed in our discussion. “You just have to die. And go /splat/ at the same time.”

I frown, thinking hard. “You mean if we jump off somewhere high, we’d be ghosts?”

“Yeah!” he yells enthusiastically. His slight bounce in his seat sends the swings off-time again. “Hey, you’re right. Wanna be ghosts? Didja know there’s a special name for when you die on purpose? It’s called suicide.”

“Suicide,” I repeat carefully. “Cool.” It’s the first time I’ve heard the word ‘suicide’. It seems a little strange to me, as if it’s a bit ridiculous that anyone would want to die on purpose. But then I’m reminded that I’m about to try.

I jump off the swing, enjoying the brief exhilaration of flight, the illusion of wind, before I fall back down onto the sharp cushion of old rubber fragments. My hands and clothes are stained black from the pieces, but I’m fine.

“Do /that/!” I taunt Jack, gleeful in my expected success.

He jumps off after me, appearing to pause in midair for a single fraction of a second. I watch, fascinated as always by the suspension of movement in air. I’ve never known anything more graceful than a diver’s momentary poise, folding and unfolding with perfect control before crashing into the water.

~

For a few days, we lead each other on a merry chase. He jumps off the slide; I jump off after. I leap off the monkey bars; he follows me. We seek higher and higher places each day. But we always feel ourselves strike the ground with only little bruises, never the fluid ectoplasm that would signal our entry into the supernatural.

I’ve been enjoying our game. The feeling of flying every time we leap, each time better and higher, seems great fun to me. But I’m also getting tired of it and wishing for the final moment that we’re trying to achieve. That’s when I decided to try jumping out of The Tree.

I think of it capital letters, not ‘a tree’ or ‘some tree’ or ‘hey, it’s a tree!’, but The Tree. I had figured out how to climb it when I was eight. It has crabapple flowers, and it’s the main tree, the dominant tree, in our little playground. It is The Tree. And I am nine and I fear no tree.

Jack climbs higher up than I can, perching birdlike in the willowy upper branches. I balance on a lower, more solid branch. The sun is bright, and the sky is blue.

“Jump!” I dare my friend, shifting impatiently. I finger a thick branch, feeling excitement rush through me. What if this is /it/?

“No!” he yells back. I hear the fear in his voice, but he can’t be afraid, I’m not afraid, why should he be?

He refuses to jump. I double-dog-dare him. I /triple/-dog-dare him, which you’re not supposed to /ever/ resist. I promise that if he jumps, I will too.

He shakes his head no, still refusing to jump. I fidget, frustrated and confused by his continued insistence. I want something to happen; arguing about suicide in a tree is boring.

“/I’ll/ jump!” I say finally, unable to stand either the wait or the debate any longer.

And I did say it, so I have to jump. And I do. I jump up and out into fragile air. I’m no higher than I would be on the swings, lower in fact. My irritation makes this brief, clean moment wilder, more now than I’ve ever felt before.

And because I’m flying and soaring and levitating, I can do anything. So I try. I twist around, trying to spin like a top and achieve the dizzy feeling of being lost completely in the moment.

I fail.

It’s with a painful, agonizing, hazy shock that I hit the ground. This isn’t safe, tested, cushioning rubber or soft fleece and fluff. It’s hard, packed dirt, with sticks and stones and it’s coming up at me and I fling out my left arm, trying to hover, to stop, no, I’m /falling…/

But it’s useless. My lower arm explodes with needles and hammers of icy heat and I scream in pain. A /lot/ of pain.