Past of Petals
by Serena Middleton
University of Oklahoma
Serena Middleton was raised in Lawton, Oklahoma, and is currently attending the University of Oklahoma. She is majoring in English Writing with a double minor in Theatre and Medieval Renaissance Studies.
Tuesday
Part of me was excited to see the trash-painted beaches again. Excited to see the seafoam blue ocean pull back and then rush forward to wet my shorts and cover my shins in the sand. However, the scab over a wound that should have healed by now didn’t get ripped off until I stepped out of the airport and stood in the humid air, being assaulted by a cacophony of conversation while waiting for the shuttle to take me to the hotel I had chosen for my week-long stay.
I looked up and watched the wind push through the branches of the plumeria trees on either side of the airport entrance. It gently caressed the petals and leaves like your hand threading through my hair. The loose, delicate yellow or pink-centered petals would break off their flower, dance with the wind for a second, then begin their descent. They’d twirl around the hundreds of people awaiting the shuttles and buses, get caught in some poor woman's hair, or swish back and forth until it reached the pavement.
As I watched the petals’ intricate dance, you stepped up next to me, your short curly hair occasionally shifting with the wind. A nondescript red baggy shirt was sitting on your lean frame. When I looked up at you, you gave me that dopey lopsided smile that made my brain turn into a computer and provided a giant error 404 not found. As you looked up at the sky, your hands found their way to your black sweatpants. A peaceful look crossed your face as you closed your eyes and breathed in the pollen-filled air.
I looked down at my suitcase, carefully considering the scratches and damage to the tiny blue lock I put through the zippers. Part of me hoped the feeling that had surfaced would disappear, and it did for a bit. For a bit, the sorrow was replaced with joy and a bit of pride. I was happy that I was getting to see the islands again after six years. I was proud to allow myself a brief respite from my job and classwork. And I tried to hold onto that pride and joy as I stepped onto the shuttle for the hotel.
The shuttle drove through the heart of the island's city; I was fascinated with the run-down buildings that sat next to skyscrapers and were juxtaposed by a park with dozens of trees placed carefully in lines and situated above iron benches far too hot even to sit on. I could see your soft smile as you watched me through the dirty glass of the bus window. For a second, it felt like I made contact with your autumn eyes that held a gentleness as you stared at me like I was the most important thing in the world. But I diverted my gaze back to the buildings and plumeria trees before I could come to a solid conclusion and before your gaze could bare into my soul and crack my heart.
I had chosen the same hotel I stayed at the first time I was here. A convenience store and a Denny's were attached to it, and across the street was a mini shopping area with a few bars. The shopping plaza had a small stage where a few people could dance, and what little grass was there was artificial. But the best part was that the hotel was less than a five-minute walk from the beach, so when the shuttle finally stopped in front of the hotel, I had to resist the urge to abandon my luggage and dart there. The desire to go and enjoy the ocean and the trash-painted shores only seemed to increase as I ascended to my hotel room. The want only grew when I pushed back the curtains on the balcony door and saw that I had a direct line of sight over the nearby buildings to the ocean. I could see dozens of people walking the path to and from the beach carrying towels and shoes, wearing clothes they bought from one of the tourist shops that sold to them for an outrageous price. The view was clear enough to see the sand pull away with the chaotic waters, but maybe that was just my memory of it.
#
Thursday
I went to the culture center today. It's where eight different groups of indigenous peoples share their culture and traditions with over-eager tourists willing to drop obscene amounts of money on things that will sit in a box for a decade. I hadn't slept well, so when I woke at seven in the morning, the fog of sleep pressed heavily on me and continued throughout most of the day. The way the center was set up, you walked to one of the eight groups' sections. You listened to them talk, and when they finished, you had to walk to another group's area, so being forced to walk around and stand up kept me awake.
We all had to crowd around the fabricated lawn when we stepped outside the first group's gathering hall to watch one of the men climb a coconut tree. I watched him practically hop up the tree, his feet seemingly sticking to the trunk like his genes mutated to enable him to stick to walls like Spiderman. When he reached the top, I noticed you stepped up next to me out of the corner of my eye. I glanced at your face and saw your hazel eyes beaming excitedly. There was a tiny grin starting to form at the edges of your mouth. When you turned to look down at me, it stretched wider with your growing child-like glee. It was the kind of grin you got when you whispered in my ear about something that was half true, but you knew it would make me smile regardless of how stupid the idea was. That was always the intent of those silly things you'd tell me; to make me smile and laugh. You were good at getting me to smile when I felt like shit.
“I wanna climb it.” You said, “I think I could pull it off.”
I shook my head and smiled, knowing you would be looking to me for validation that your semi-joke had landed, but when I looked back toward where you were standing, you had disappeared. Some part of me wished you hadn’t left me alone in a world full of noise that only you seemed to know how to quiet, but I knew you’d come to find me again, stepping out of the shadows like a memory that wouldn’t go away.
As the day continued, the rain threw a depressive mood on my face. I couldn't remember there being rain in the forecast, so when it suddenly started pouring, my first thought was, 'fuck, I don't have an umbrella,' then I remembered my tennis shoes were not intended to sit in the rain. I grimaced when I looked down at my dirt-dusted black shoes. The dirt was slowly getting darker, turning into mud, and the weird cloth netting was soaking up the water. I could feel the front and tops of my white socks getting wet, clinging to my toes. My mind screamed at me, demanding that I rip the socks off and walk around barefoot, although the idea of stepping on trash, nails, or glass kept me from doing it. So I suffered through the other seven seminars trying to ignore the gut-churching feeling clinging to my feet. At some point, I thought paying damn near thirty dollars for a coconut would make the pain disappear. A stupid decision, really; the coconut only gave me something new to complain about mentally. I wanted to share the weird nut fruit water thing with you, so I could watch your eyes scrunch and your lip curl as you exclaimed, "god, that's disgusting." But you weren't there for me to pass the coconut to, so I passed the coconut to a trash can.
#
Friday
Today was so humid I felt like a damp cloth was shoved up my nose and throat. It was awful, and I didn’t have my inhaler, so I spent much of my time in the island’s largest outdoor mall seeking shelter in one of the 290 poorly air-conditioned stores. My only saving grace was the occasional breeze that blew through. At some point, after trekking through a Hot Topic, Box Lunch, and Barnes and Noble, I found myself in a tourist trap of a store. It was entirely dedicated to women, and the various dresses matched the supposed typical clothing of the indigenous women. But, in reality, it was probably the clothing they had been degraded to wear, like the hula skirt and coconut bras. Either way, the clothing was a giant tourist trap encouraging young women to pay fifty or sixty dollars before tax for a dress or shirt they’d only wear once or twice. I was usually incredibly stingy with my money, not wanting to spend more than twenty dollars, and internally crying when I spent more than said amount. However, like the classic moth to a flame, I was enticed by the clothing's bright, flashy colors and intricate patterns. As I was perusing the clothing, one shop owner came over and pestered me. She was an older Asian woman with gray flecks in her black hair. At some point, while I was looking at some mid-length dresses, I pulled out a mostly red dress with perfect horizontal rows of white plumerias. I turned to look at you silently, asking what you thought.
You shrugged your boney shoulders. “It’s cute.”
I could feel that familiar burning ball of disdain swell in my chest like the last time I tried to ask for your genuine opinion on a choice of clothing. You gave me the generic shitty response of “You look good in either one.”
I had to repress the sigh welling with the feeling of disdain as I went back to looking at the dress and its various colors and patterns. Seeming to sense my distress, the owner flew to my side as I lifted a pale-yellow dress out of the row.
“Maybe not that color. Try this one,” the owner said, thrusting a dark blue dress with less organized flowers into my hands.
I was paralyzed. I could feel the lump in my throat form as I struggled to tell the woman I had no intention of paying for a seventy-dollar dress, but I couldn’t. Whether it was out of politeness or anxiety, I didn’t know. My inability to speak only encouraged the woman to hand me more dresses. My incapability to say no is how I ended up holding dozens of dresses in their dark and incredibly shady dressing room. It had a cheap wall mirror that I could buy at Walmart, a dusty wooden bench bolted into the wall and a chair that looked like it had been pulled from my elementary school cafeteria.
I could have just sat down and messed around on my phone until enough time had passed for me to step out and awkwardly hand the clothes back. But I was curious, or maybe I just wanted internal approval of my appearance. Nevertheless, I zipped myself into the dark blue dress and stared at myself in the mirror. I smiled at how my hips curved with the dress, and the most minor cleavage poked out from the top. But then the smile dropped, and the pit in my stomach at the airport entrance resurfaced as I stared at the door. Sighing, I stepped out of the dressing room, baring myself to the eyes of the shop owner and you. Maybe I looked like a scared rabbit ready to bolt because the owner gave me an encouraging smile.
"You look beautiful. It fits perfectly," she said, nodding and giving her best customer service face. It was desperate begging for me to buy the expensive thing. Maybe this was why the store was empty. Or perhaps it was because this place was insignificant to potential customers in a mall of recognizable store names.
I let a small, strained smile cross my face and looked at where you were. Only you weren’t there. You weren’t standing between the rows of dresses and shirts. You weren’t there to give me that dumb-struck look that said I was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen. You weren’t there to whisper, ‘You look beautiful.’ Unable to keep the strained smile, I returned to the dressing room. I stared at myself in that dress for another minute, then let a smile grace my face. I looked cute, but I was unsure about the color. I glanced at my phone, sitting diligently on the chair that held my clothes, and then looked back to the door. With a decisive nod, I picked up my phone and messaged one of my best friends. In a matter of seconds, he responded, agreeing to my request for a second opinion on which color of dress I should get.
I spent the next few minutes sending him pictures of me in the various colors I thought I looked best in. And like a dutiful friend, he gave honest opinions telling me that the dark purple dress was the best but that he was also a biased judge as purple was one of his favorite colors. I felt pride well in me as I looked at the dress, and for a second, I considered buying it until I was reminded of the price.
#
Sunday
There's something serene about standing barefoot in wet sand with ocean waves rolling past your shins and wetting any clothing at the knee. The grains stick to your toes, and each time the water pulls back and rushes forward, you sink a little deeper into the cool earth. It's an uncomfortable feeling that calms the mind but tenses the muscles. It would be a perfect moment if not for the screaming kids and the drivers honking impatiently on the road near the beach. An ideal moment where nothing else in the world matters. No worries about the future of the planet. No concern if there was going to be a school shooting or a natural disaster blowing through to destroy your entire life, while your college professors lack any care of your plight because "Why didn't you have the assignment done earlier instead of waiting till the last minute to do it." No worry if today was going to be the last day you lived because some fuck head with a gun decided they wanted you dead. When they've never met you before, you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. These moments in nature where you subconsciously tune every drop of humanity out make life worth living. Those rare quiet moments let society's chaos seemingly vanish into thin air.
Unfortunately, it's also those moments when your mind seems the loudest. Suppose you need to carefully tune out your thoughts. In that case, you'll end up like me, sinking into the sand while your knees ache from being locked in place for so long, staring blankly at the ocean waves rolling over each other while reflecting the midday sun. I wasn't thinking of anything in particular, but my brain was upset with whatever it was focused on. When my legs grew too tired to stand, I patted my shorts, ensuring my phone and wallet weren't there. When I confirmed that I had hallucinated, feeling them in my pockets, I sank to the ground and let the water practically wash me.
I could feel you sitting beside me, probably sinking into the sand too. The air of someone wanting to say something lingered like someone's brain was trying to formulate the right words. Before long, I heard your voice ringing in my ears as my head tilted down.
“You okay?”
I shook my head and looked up at the ocean.
“You’ll get there. You haven’t allowed yourself to really; I don’t know, feel, I guess.” Your voice said.
A small smile crossed my face as calm filled the area around me and quieted my mind. I stared at the waves rolling over each other in the race for the shore. I knew you were right, not that I’d ever say it out loud.
#
Monday
I took a picture of the sunset this evening. I was sitting at a table at a luau with a small glass of water. Today there wasn't a breeze, and it wasn't late enough in the evening for it to cool down. It might have been 80 degrees, though I regretted wearing jeans and a black shirt. It felt like standing before an oven, getting burned by the heat. At some point, I looked up to comment on the conversation the widowed Caucasian woman across from me was having with the young African American couple to my right. But the comment fell short as I saw the gorgeous orange glow stretching over the stone half-wall just inches from the cliff face. The group probably thought I was rude when I abruptly stood and jogged around the squished-together tables, seats, and people. I passed the small concert-like stage set up for the luau's evening performance and weaved through the crowd like a mouse hustling through tall grass. I eventually arrived in the shade below a monkey pod tree. Every monkey-brained tourist and half-decent photographer crowded around the wall to get their own picture of this gorgeous sunset, so I patiently waited my turn to scoot up and try to get a picture. When my opening arrived, I set my phone on the bumpy wall, praying to whatever deity or deities was listening that it wouldn't fall and tumble down the cliff face into the riptides below. Surprisingly one shot was all I needed. One image of the ocean in the distance gently rising with the sun's fading rays blazing fire across the surface, almost turning the dark blue waters gray. When I say the shot looked like a professional photographer took it, and you'd pull it off Google, I mean it. I stepped back to allow others their chance to try and capture the sunset silently, hoping they would have as much luck as I did getting the perfect shot.
While standing underneath the shade of the monkey pod tree watching the sunset, I felt what I could only imagine was your arms wrapped around my waist, holding my back flush against your chest as you bent down to rest your head against the side of mine. My movement was so small I'd imagine no one would have noticed unless they were staring at me. I would have tilted my head to the side, but it would have looked strange to the others around me.
I eventually let out a quiet “It’s beautiful.”
I couldn’t help but snicker to myself hearing your voice say “like you.” or maybe it would have been “not as beautiful as you.”
It would have been a cliche line. But those were the ones that always got me to smile the most. Most people would have told you to stop, but I could never bring myself to. I enjoyed the shitty, seemingly overused lines you said to me. Maybe it was because even over a text, I could see your eyes crinkle at the corners and the dopey lopsided grin that stretched across your face. After all, you knew you would have me smiling.
I knew I’d have to leave tomorrow morning, so I sat there baking and watching the sun pull the water blanket over itself. I was determined to watch it for as long as I could, and as I stood there, I felt you press a kiss to my temple. The kind that you would let linger for a second or two before you would look at me like nothing else mattered, but maybe that was just my memory of you.
#
My gaze drifted back to the airport entrance, where you stood just beyond the door, giving me that dopey grin while you placed your hands in the pockets of your sweatpants. A sigh left me as I shook my head. The smile you wore disappeared with the shape of your face and the dark curls of your hair. I turned my back to you and the airport entrance to place my bag on the rolling table for security to check.
Part of me wished I had never decided to come here only a year after we had broken things off. I told myself and my friends that I was over it; I was over you. Because how could I not be when you had already moved on and had another girlfriend? How could I not be over your dopey grin or arms wrapped around me while we lay in your bed talking about whatever crossed our minds? How could I not be over the warmth of your hugs or abrupt laughter when something was funny but not hilarious? How could I not miss how you seemed to be the only one to pull me from the dark spiral of anxiety that never seemed to stop? How could I not hate the reminder of you excitedly talking about wanting to come to these islands when I mentioned I had been here before? But that part of me that wished I hadn’t come here slowly dissipated as I went through TSA and sat in front of my gate. Acceptance and relief were slowly consuming me.
I could see more clearly than the bus windows how your eyes filled, and your smile dropped as you held your dog and watched me close your front door. I was trying not to break down on your porch because your mother would hear me in the garage. And as I got into my car, I thought about how your mother might hate me for being the reason you cried. I suppressed the tears for several months. I held onto them and said I was fine to everyone that asked. I pretended I was fine in my classes when I glanced out the window and saw a couple holding hands. I had to be okay because you had another girlfriend only a few months after we broke up, and here I was, still mourning. The glow stick didn't crack until I sat in front of my grandmother's grave in the "veterans and their spouses" section of the town cemetery. I balled my eyes out as I told her about you. I told her about everything from your favorite animal to how you gave me numerous heart attacks when you scaled things you probably shouldn't be on,
When they announced off the shitty intercom that my flight had begun boarding, I stood and steeled myself for the plane ride ahead, praying to whoever was listening that I wouldn't be stuck in front of an antsy four-year-old again. I knew I had to leave my pain here. I had to leave us here. I went past the stewardess checking boarding passes, onto the jet bridge, and onto the airplane. Sitting in my seat closest to the window, I stared at the airport employees chucking passenger bags onto the rolling line going up into the plane, where another person would again launch the bag. If they weren't so close to the plane, they'd look like neon yellow birds, and yet if the employees were any closer, I would have been able to see if they hated their job. Granted, I would also hate life if I had to stand next to a plane every few hours and lug ungodly heavy bags around.
Eventually, the plane began pulling away from the jet bridge. The uneven tarmac occasionally caused the plane to jostle. The wind picked up, slightly rustling the trees decorating the airport outside. And on the other side of the building, where the entrance was, the wind lifted plumeria petals from their trees and danced with them before carrying their delicate bodies off into the island.
Interview with the Author
1. What do you want readers to take away from your writing?
I think the biggest thing I'd want readers to take away is just it's okay to grieve, and sometimes it takes a bit to get to that point.
2. Is there an emotion that you feel when you write your pieces?
The emotion I feel while writing varies. I try to feel what the character is feeling so I can convey it better to the reader. For the creative non-fiction pieces, I try to remember what I was feeling at the moment—a lot of the time, it's sorrow or a form of nostalgia.
3. What is your creative process when you write? Is there a mood you set? A mindset you focus on?
When I write, I try to remember the specific memory I'm writing about, the way something looked, what was happening around me, how I felt, and if someone else was there, how they looked. I also try to listen to music to help lower or raise my mood, and then depending on what I'm writing about. I also try to use the music to help focus on the mood I want to set.
4. What is your creative process when you write? Is there a mood you set? A mindset you focus on?
It's freeing. Even just journaling is helpful. You can take whatever emotion you are going through, whatever struggle you are facing, and you can channel it into the words you and writing or typing. It can help redirect your emotions and thoughts, and it can help you get past things and work through emotions.