Tragedy

TRAGEDY

By
Terence Kenneth

I would never see Audrey May again, and that was a tragedy because she was the only one who could have saved my life. In my inner darkness she was the singular point of light that I could see - distant, barely there, but incredibly warm, and able to melt the most unbreakable ice from around my heart. My memories return me to the days of her stolen youth, and how fragile she was. I particularly recall how burdened she became and how her transparent blue eyes would overflow with tears at even the tiniest hint of distress. She was my queen and my love. She possessed an eternal youthfulness that never left her despite her outward appearance, and a laugh reserved only for the innocence of a child. I tremble with sorrow, troubled that with the passing years my image of her is stretched and faded, like a favorite sweater that still comforts me with its shapeless embrace. And before I realize it, her likeness is almost lost to me forever, except for memories of a smile or of those fleeting eyes, and the now forgotten smell of her skin like honeysuckle scented soap.

I was educated by the British school system, in a suburb of southeast London in the nineteen seventies. My father was a Nigerian immigrant who had come to Britain in the mid-fifties in search of a better life, and my mother was as English as afternoon tea. All of this made me an adorable hybrid, or so I was told. From my very first days in public school there was barely a time when I wasn’t tormented by the specter of hate, disguised as little boys with names like, Gary and Benjamin. Each day I would awake to my malnoia, uneasy about the day ahead, recalling the scars of yesterday and how I had just stood by while they tortured a poor, ugly and malodorous girl named Janet. Perhaps it is some form of unspoken retribution that those images have lived with me for the better part of my life. After all, how could I? How could I have just stood there while they kicked and punched that innocent young girl, who never once raised a hand to those bullies? She took so much punishment from them, and I know she suffered, day after day, term after term, from the promise of an effervescent spring to those darkening days of autumn. Dear sweet Janet, how sorry I am that I never came to your rescue. You must never forgive me, for I am just as guilty as those that inflicted those terrible acts upon you.

By the time I entered high school, my withdrawn and introverted behavior had blossomed like a bad dream, and I was once again paralyzed by the familiar stew of inertia and apprehension that had struck me in earlier years. It was same immobilizing fear that as a troubled five year old had prevented me from telling my parents that my favorite toy, a plastic blue and white ship, had fallen into the ‘prickles’ where I could no longer retrieve it. The ‘prickles’, the name I had given to a particularly evil bramble bush at the end of my backyard, was like a barbed wire fence, curling wickedly upon itself like a malevolent serpent. How I despised that jumbled mess that never gave up that little ship. I like to think that it was my undying love for my parents that accepted the fact that it was gone forever, and in my mind it was well worth the sacrifice to save their pain. Some nights I dream that I am back in my old yard, only this time I am an adult. And then I reach in and rescue the doomed toy from the evil brambles and hand it to a young boy that looks remarkably like me.

As a teenager, my mind began the construction of an impenetrable wall, manifested secretly and unbeknownst to others as the alter ego of my favorite comic book hero. So why would it matter that I was not popular with either the girls or the boys in my class, or that they poked fun at me, or made comments about my caramel colored skin and my wide nose? What did they know about me? All I had to do was rip open my shirt to reveal the black spider emblem on my chest, which contrasting boldly against the crimson of my Spiderman suit was enough to strike fear into all of my archenemies.

And yet despite my secret, which I maintained well into early adulthood, women and love affairs were fleeting in my life, and proved to be one of many areas in which I could not claim even the slightest measure of success. And so it came to be that the only woman that held any power over me was the numinous Audrey May. But how excruciating it was to witness her deterioration into an old lady whose young dreams had never come true - this beautiful spirit who had cared for me my entire life. Her days would forever be mirrored in my eyes, as would the visible marks of her suicidal errors, the jumbled memories jolted by too many electric shock treatments, and the ultimate crushing despair of losing her only love.

It was then I would discover, that she relied on me more than ever. And yet at every turn it was she that consoled and shielded me, especially when father died. And the day that she told me of his passing is etched indelibly inside me, where it has stayed like an odd treasure. But ultimately it was me that let her down, turning opportunities into lazy, carefree days, months and years. There was always tomorrow, I would say, if not verbally, then with my improvident actions. I still can’t believe that I lost it all, the chance to do right, the chance to make a great life for us both. I should have made her rich, I should have given her the things that she always dreamed of but could never have. My mother deserved at least that much. And make no mistake – she was rich, in her own kind and serene way, rich in both spirit and goodness. And so it was that I never got to replace that old cardigan of hers that she wore incessantly, but still, I did love her. Today, with my perfect vision, I am bombarded by revelations that sadly were always there, but which I could not see back then; hindsight at its very best and its very cruelest, piercing my soul, leaving no room for emancipation, even if I did desire or deserve it.

And so my friends, high up here I can taste the cool maritime wind, and as I prepare to plummet towards the deep, dark, salty ocean, I remember Audrey May with an inscrutable love and sadness; a juxtaposition that is all too familiar. And what a love it was – and will always be, filling every void in my delicate heart so completely. But where did our time go? Did I not try to capture it like so many other well-intentioned acts, only to find that it too was stolen by the now mundane chores of ‘making a living’ and ‘getting by’? And where and how do I begin to show gratitude for all you have given me? Thank you Audrey May, for the wonderful gift of life, for the pleasure of knowing who you were, for the candy I used to grumble about much too frequently; for the touch of your aging hands, for your unending care that I am too late to repay, and for halting the relentless march of time - even if it was only for a while.

Terence Kenneth © 2000.