Photo by Naomi Villa
I’ve been sitting with the senses as a doorway to memory, which is what we explore in my writing workshops. Walking down the sidewalk a few weeks ago, my eyes did the work for me. Here’s the first draft of where it took me.
After a long conversation with M in the bookstore, I cruised through the adjoining café and saw A and then D as I was on my way out the door. I was craving a hamburger, and had to pass on their invitations to join them. M had recommended the Date Night hamburger at one of my favorite local restaurants, so I headed in that direction.
Outside, the air was damp and cold. Bundled up, carrying my book bag and purse, I started my walk. The leaves, no longer crunchy, were wet and sandwiched together on the sidewalk. Light and dark oranges covered the ground. I could feel the textures change and hear the squishing of the leaves under my feet.
I’d look up and take in the people and sounds around me. The damp air was crisp and smelled like tacos.
I was thinking about the conversation I had with M as we stood in the bookstore. I had seen her earlier that day at the café, where I gently touched her hand to say hello. It had been two weeks since we first met. Talking with her again, learning more about each other as we drifted from the poetry section to philosophy, was such a treat. When we hug, she feels like an old friend. She asked me so many beautiful questions, and I couldn’t help but reflect on it all.
As I looked back down at the leaves, I saw shoes. Black shoes, with three white stripes down the side. Shoes I’ve seen my entire life. Soccer shoes, Adidas. The owner was a young man bussing tables on the outdoor patio of a sushi restaurant. He was wearing black slacks, with a black apron tied around his waist, a black dress shirt, with a head full of shaggy brown hair. My gaze dropped back to his shoes, tears started to fill my eyes, and I was back in high school.
I was sitting in math class, back row. I gave up on sitting in the front. Ms. Smith would take off her brown strapped sandals, Birkenstocks, and I’d have to hold my breath the rest of class. The back row was where Seiji, Jimmy, and Brad sat. All four of us would focus on classwork, and we’d also have some fun when we could. We’d practice making baa sounds and holding our upper and lower lips out, all while sticking our tongues out, curving them upwards, trying to look like goats. The profile view was hilarious and we’d be laughing out loud at each other. I can still make the face and baa sound to this day, over 30 years later.
And Brad. Brad had long brown hair. It was straight, parted down the middle, and barely touched his shoulders. He called me Villa. I can still hear his voice, deep and somewhat raspy, and his laugh I knew all too well.
His eyes twinkled when he smiled, and sometimes they shimmered like silver. Looking into his eyes was like looking into water, with the sun reflecting off the surface.
I secretly had a crush on him that dissipated over time. I loved his playfulness, silliness, and sense of humor. When he laughed, he’d get a goofy grin that was warm and inviting.
He played soccer. He always wore t-shirts, light blue jeans, and his black Adidas Sambas.
For my 10-year high school reunion, I got dressed up. I wore a black blouse, a silk skirt with dark pink and black diagonal stripes, pantyhose, and Mary Janes. I never dressed up in high school, but I did for this. When I walked in, I recognized a few people, and Brad was one of them.
He was wearing a purple dress shirt, cufflinks, gray slacks, and dress shoes. His hair was short and he was clean-shaven. His eyes still twinkled. As I walked up to him, my heart happy, he took my hand, twirled me, and said, “Villa,” the way he always did. His voice was deeper now, but still the same.
A group of us sat down and started reminiscing. Brad took out his phone and talked about his boyfriend, showing photos of him and the two of them together. When it was time for him to go, a few of us walked out with him to say goodbye. He pointed out his fancy two-seater sports car, hopped in, and left.
I saw Brad again in 2017, at our 20-year high school reunion. He was wearing a crisp white dress shirt with a diamond pattern, dark blue jeans, and a dark gray fedora. He had a short beard, and his eyes twinkled. He greeted me with a huge smile and a hug, and he still called me Villa.
One night, sitting in the middle of my bedroom floor with my laptop in front of me, I went on a quest to find Brad’s contact information. He’d been on my mind for a few days, so I thought I’d give him a call.
I didn’t find his contact information. Instead, I found his obituary.
The obituary wasn’t really an obituary. The local paper listed his birth date and death date at the top of the page. Below it was one sentence with his age, 40, and the details about his celebration of life: date, time, and location. He died in 2018, shortly after our reunion.
I wanted there to be more.
I wish I had known about his death. I could have cried at his celebration of life, not alone on my bedroom floor.