Strong Arms by Emily Stimpson
Sometimes I feel like the world is a giant pair of
strong warm arms that wrap me up. That everyone loves me. That the sky and the
clouds and the sun and stars were put there just for me.
And then sometimes the strong arms
just start holding and squeezing me. I can’t escape. Not even on top of a
mountain where the wind that makes my face burn usually forces the arms to let
go of me.
I carry confusion. I carry loss. I’m a freak, and I
want to cry. I was good and then the world hit me like a punch in the stomach. I
should have known it was too nice. It was too perfect. It was lover-ly. It was
all too lover-ly. The world gives me this false sense of security. I don’t
understand how I can go from being so contentedly, truly, peacefully happy to
feeling so bad I want to throw up. Sometimes I hate it. Sometimes I hate every
part of it. Sometimes I want to go scream really loud and just leave here and
everyone here – forever.
I had this awful dream last night. I was
in my room looking out my window watching. Watching these guys drive up on
4-wheelers. Watching them murder my father. There was blood everywhere. They
wrapped him up in a white sheet. The blood was so vibrant; there was so much red
against that white. I ran to my brother’s room, to warn him, to tell him we
had to hide. He wouldn’t listen. He thought I was crazy and annoying. Somehow
I forced him into his closet. I was crazy – crying. He laughed. He laughed at
me with this look in his eyes. He was Alan, but an evil Alan, like the evil you
see in the bad guy of a really creepy movie. I woke up all hot and sweaty with
sore eyes.
I carry memories. My aunt told me to go upstairs, to go upstairs and play, and to go join in on the fun. I walked up the wooden, hollow-sounding stairs and what did I see? My cousin’s pale white butt and her dad laughing his obnoxiously loud gut-renching laugh. I had unintentionally been mooned. But they didn’t even see me. I was in 4th grade. I was scared. I went quickly and silently back down the hollow stairs. My aunt was there in the warm kitchen to cook food for me so I wouldn’t be alone. She had cereal on the top shelf in clear plastic containers, so the choices would be easy for me. She made me comfy and knew that I didn’t like choices and complicated things. She understood.
Now she’s dead. But I don’t get it. I mean, yeah,
she’s dead, but I don’t remember anything but the food. It doesn’t bother
me that she’s dead. It doesn’t seem significant. But it must be. Death is
significant. Anytime people die, they are gone from the world forever. But I
don’t even really care.
Well, maybe I do. I mean I am writing
about it.
Maybe I’m writing about it because it
creeps me out, the fact that I don’t care.
I can’t decide.
I know I don’t just carry the bad stuff.
I carry the moon shrouded in clouds. I carry the moon shadows that are beautiful against the trees. I carry the stars and the Big Dipper. I carry the Milky Way and the velvet night sky. I carry the look on his face as the talk came like the caramel in Carmelos – running everywhere and flowing so nice. I carry it under the moonlight.
I carry my brother Alan. I carry wool sweaters that he
gave me for my birthday. Big chunky wool sweaters that wrap me up. Wool sweaters
that make the cold air pressed against my face feel good and know that fall is
really here.
I carry our arguments and the way we love
each other – love each other constantly despite our nothingness. We are both
nothings. Alan and Emily, just people in the world. But that doesn’t matter.
“That I would be loved even when I am not myself. That I would be good even
when I am overwhelmed. That I would be loved even when I was fuming. That I
would be good even if I was clinging. That I would be good even if I lost
sanity,” the song says. That’s how we love each other – truly and deeply.
I carry my brother Andy, too. I carry memories of
practicing declamations like “Ode to a Shower” by Garrison Keiller. I
remember laughing. Laughing truly and deeply and loudly. Laughing that makes my
stomach hurt, but feels so good. He’s not a morning person and is really hard
to wake up. One time I was given permission to get him out of bed with a water
gun. It worked. I sprinted from the room, down the stairs, and leapt behind the
couch. He stormed after, but Mom told him I’d gone outside. He ended up
running around the house a couple times.
I carry memories of my brothers torturing me. They
would roll me up in a blue floor carpet. There was about a foot of extra carpet
on both sides, just enough for them to reach me – and tickle me. They would
tickle me mercilessly. Eventually I would feel my stomach coming up my throat.
And until I threatened that I was about to throw up, they would not stop. Even
then they wouldn’t unroll me. I was left to unroll myself, which usually took
awhile.
I remember them babysitting me by tying me
up with ropes and leaving me in my room. Andy liked magic and knew many knots.
Occasionally I’d get out – I was a little squirmy girl – which kept it
interesting for him. He would try new ways of tying me up with new knots. I
think that was why he did it – for the challenge. Unlike Alan, who did it
purely from the goodness of his heart. Of course, they’d untie me as soon as
we heard the car coming up the driveway. But one way or anther my parents never
found out.
I carry my friends. I’ve only had one friend before
now, Lindsey Bolin. She was extremely shy like I used to be. She was goofy,
happy, hyper, loopy when she was at home with her family and me. I remember once
I pulled some muscles in my abs. We were laughing, but every time we started, I
would grab my stomach and say in a pained voice, “No, no, stop, stop!” Then
she’d start cracking up again, laughing at my pain and the way I spoke. But I
couldn’t stop. And we laughed the night away. She knew me inside-out.
But I left. I went to private school. I no
longer know her inside out. And she doesn’t know me.
Now I carry the strongest friends I can remember having. I carry fierce arguments with them, and I carry forgiving, them and, sometimes, myself. I carry the memories of warm hugs that are imprinted in my arms, so they know where they’ve been and where they are going next time. I carry tears on my shoulder from my friends that will never evaporate. They leave stains. But I like old, stained shirts that have a past.
I carry a Bible, too. I carry all the confusion about
my own religion. I carry memories of philosophical conversations with friends
and their fathers. I carry questions and confusion. I don’t always agree with
Christianity, but I know I believe in God. I know this. I feel this.
I feel this when I cry because a song is
just beautiful.
I feel this when I think of my brothers or
my friends and the love just surges through me and all I wanna do is give them
the biggest hug.
I feel this when I look up on a cold fall
day and the leaves burn against the sky.
I feel this when I talk and cry and yell
to God when I sit on my roof, looking at the stars.
I feel this when I’m done yelling and
nothing is figured out, but I feel peaceful. Almost like when I wake up from
that dream and realize that it wasn’t real and my father is alive.
But I don’t understand. It’s hard to conform what I
believe into a single religion. It’s easier to conform it into a single
moment.
Sometimes I wonder if I would or should
practice another religion. I mean if Christianity weren’t there and
convenient, would I be Muslim or Hindu or Baha’i? Am I a Christian simply
because I was born in Tennessee?
I believe in beauty. I believe in
kindness. I believe in love. I wish I could just say I believe in God and keep
it simple.
Even if I’m not sure about religion, I know the world
is a giant pair of strong warm arms that wrap me up. That everyone loves me.
That the sky and the clouds and the sun and stars were put there just for me.
And then sometimes the strong arms just
start holding and squeezing me. I can’t escape. Not even on top of a mountain
where the wind that makes my face burn usually forces the arms to let go of me.