Olivia Zaban

Still Thinking

PUBLISHED IN FOLIO 2023: VOL. 38.

The sun had other plans that day. It usually watched over us when we trudged, but that afternoon it decided we were old enough and did not need a babysitter. If I looked closely enough, I could still see it peeking through the clouds. I suppose it still didn’t trust us completely. You stared up too, and I wondered if you were thinking about the clouds and if we should have gone trekking because I thought we should. We had eaten our peanut butter and jelly with the crusts still on because my mom was in a rush. I still had Goldfish stuck in my back teeth, and spent the time we had been looking at the sky fishing them out with my tongue.

The last of the golden and maroon leaves threatened to fall to the ground. Those leaves that had already succumbed to their fate created a carpet beneath our feet. The chilled air signified fall, and the clouds moved in to reassure the town that October would be cold. The creek urged us to join in on its fun before winter wilted the sky.

You were my best friend since kindergarten. Mrs. Deekin told my parents and your parents that we brought out the best in each other. We both colored in the lines and picked the tomatoes off our Subway sandwiches after school. You could memorize lines from Harry Potter, but I was still better at soccer. You and I made sense, unlike that day when my brain fell through my body and my breath got faster.

At that moment, my boots felt too big. There was a spider in the left shoe when I put them on by the closet, and I tried so hard not to squirm. I did not like spiders and you knew this, so I squished it on the mudroom floor. It would have drowned anyway; the creek was much higher since it rained. Yesterday’s rain had washed away most of the treasure in the rushing water, but that did not deter us. Most times, it wasn’t even about the treasure.

Our raincoats felt unnecessary; the clouds weren’t spitting—most likely because the sun said, let them play. The creek behind my house held surprises that were different from the area where we lived, surprises that did not fit in. The scoffs from the neighborhood stuck-ups did little to caution our curiosity. We were important to the creek’s ecosystem; we were needed in its rhythm. It breathed with its ripples, and I tried to match its pace with every trek.

The bottom was muddy, and I couldn’t see where my foot left marks. We could have been crushing the creatures which called this place behind my home, theirs, but I guess I would never see to know. You went ahead, your eyes trained on the bottom for daily surprises. Like the pearl we found in the dirty clam shell that now sits on my desk after being washed by my dad for what seemed like several days. It shined when the light from my blinds hit it at certain times in the morning—my explorer’s trophy. I kept it because I was the one who found it first, and after all, it was my house, so that made the most sense. You seemed a bit upset, but you kept the sea glass we found that one time. The one I wanted. This freshwater sea glass seemed almost impossible, and I didn’t want to tell you, but after you left, my dad said it was a part of a beer bottle that had been rubbed down by the stream. You can keep your Heineken parts.

The creek had no start. Whenever I looked to my left, it disappeared under a rusted tunnel more mysterious than I cared to admit. Peeking into the tunnel caused that same cramping feeling in my stomach and the rush to my head that made me wonder if monsters resided in it—monsters that grabbed ahold of my brain and shook it. Looking away cleared them, shooed them, but they left a small footprint every time. The complete darkness hid the comfort of knowing the beginning. We would never know as we were not allowed under the tunnel. The treasures in there were much too dangerous.

More curious than the lack of a start was the lack of an ending. The trees went on forever—our own little rainforest. I never went past my neighbor’s yard at the end of the block. My mom told me I was not allowed to, but what would happen if I ran and ran, trying to escape?

The sun had disappeared completely and we made it into our neighbors’ yard. The mud tightened around my feet and snaked its way up my throat. There was no wind in the world to blow the sense of dread out of my boots or body. You continued on; your eyes trained on the bottom—but why? Why were your eyes focused on something you couldn’t see? My heart racing, I decided my trudge was over. The water brought a sense I had never felt before, and my backyard was calling for me to run home and escape. But escape from what? Suddenly, your shriek filled the air, my blood turned freezing, and the clouds descended upon us. Naturally, the clouds hadn’t moved, and if I asked if you felt the same, you might have laughed at me. Instead, I shouted, “What do you have?”

Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t hear what you yelled. My eyes trained them- selves on the way back; my brain begged itself to please slow. I can’t remember how I asked you to go back, but I’m sure it sounded funny. I still can see the look in your eyes—the one you’d never given me before—the one I never want to see again.

That night at dinner after I finished my food, it came again. The monsters from the tunnel had somehow gotten in. Did you leave the back door open? I had asked you nicely to close it. No one else noticed any monsters, so I supposed they were there for me. It had been hours since you took your treasure home and the lights in the house were off. I climbed the stairs, pulled the sheets to my chin, and the moon decided to watch me sleep. The pale light made the tunnel creatures restless. Sweat dripping, I balled up my sheets, and my eyes flickered back and forth. I was still looking for an end. Why won’t it end?

The pearl glistened in the light, and I wondered why I hadn’t shared it with you. If I had, maybe you would’ve slept over and we could’ve talked.

We always had trouble sharing the treasure we found, because we were young. One day, we will grow up and learn how to share, and not just toys. We will share love, feelings, sentiments, opinions. We will share laughter until it becomes tears and writing until it becomes best-selling books. We will share our food and our homes and what troubles us in those hours when the witching happens. But what will happen when I become old and I still can’t share? These thoughts are not for sharing, only for hoarding. They can build up like the leaves in November on the muddy bottom and stick to my shoes until I need to bang them against a tree to free myself from their hold. I will share my pearls and sea glass, and love for you and me, but I will not share this.

I do not want to call them the tunnel monsters, because giving them a name gives them authority. Even nameless, they still sit on my doorstep. When my parents are out to dinner and I am alone, I hear them creaking in the attic. I hear them in the biology lab when things get just a bit too loud. They gnaw at my fingers as I sit late at night typing. My breath quickens every night, and I can’t fall asleep. I will not share this. Sometimes they are stagnant like the part halfway through the creek. They stay that way until a Wednesday night after a cheese board and one too many glasses of wine, and then they come in freshwater tears. Sometimes, the feeling runs like it did in the neighbor’s yard, a constant flow, a circulation pulsing through my body until my leg begins to shake and my teeth grab ahold of my lip until it bleeds. My hands reach for my earrings and twist them until my earlobes yell politely to knock it off. The ending doesn’t exist. It never does. My thoughts run alongside the creek, following its twists and turns.

The other day, I was walking through the street and it hit me. How funny— there’s no creek in sight. It can follow in the times where happiness rains or sadness hits like a head-on collision. The move from the old house does not mean the creek found its end; it just means new boots trudge through it. And this darkness that consumed a small piece of that day rushes its freshwater through my veins. An explorer can explore more than just the nature that surrounds them. I realize that, as explorers, we could create a beginning and an end for ourselves. The way we started and the way we never went too far. The comfort in knowing what we knew then. There is no comfort from the creek now, just lessons on how to breathe and journal and try to share.

I will not share this. I believe the most powerful explorers look in the mirror and smile with tears in their eyes until they cry or laugh or smash their hand through it. They are able to share this.