myself. He
smirks, visibly glad that his jibe was able to infuriate me even slightly.
“He’s thinking of proposing,” I reveal.
“Really?” Tate exclaims. “It’s funny; I
just can’t picture Rian as a family man. The whole wife and kids thing seems so…
drab.”
I am puzzled by this response. Marriage
is just an accepted way of life; always has been in human society.
“So you would rather be alone all your
life?” I probe, kicking a stray pebble across the path.
“No. I just don’t know that I am ready
for marriage. We are still in school, and for now my priority has to be my
education and achieving a distinguished title.”
I process this information, and continue
dragging my feet along the floor littered with crunchy autumn leaves.
“I guess I respect that. But I want the
dream someday. A partner to stand by me through thick and thin. Children to
inspire to greatness. It just sounds so… comforting.”
Tate
spends a moment in silent contemplation before replying, “I’ve seen the ‘dream’
evolve into a nightmare before my own eyes. I don’t want to risk that happening
to me. If my spouse became a monster, or even worse if I did… I don’t even want
to think.”
I
can see the pain tainting his face: his lower lip quivering, eyes damp with
suppressed tears, a nervous hand running over his scalp. He has been through so
much with his father, and I don’t even know the half of it. Tate is careful to
keep his private life under wraps and emit a lighthearted cheerfulness in
public, thus containing the truth within a heavy heart and obscuring it from
view.
I reach for his hand, but he swivels away
from me, flinching. He briskly swipes his eyes and pastes a numb smile on his
face that fails to reach his sorrowful emerald eyes.
“Anyways, to be named after the amygdala
in homage to your intelligence; it’s a little strange and a true marker of
arrogance, at least on her parent’s part,” Tate blurts. We are back to
discussing Amy, as if the last few minutes never occurred.
“She’ll be there this week, so we can
collect more evidence to support our opinions. Ultimately, I just want her to
take care of Rian. If he is happy, I will learn to be too.”
We continue in awkward silence, both of
us considering the conversation that transpired moments before. I wish Tate would
let me in, because I know the task of bottling his emotions and repressing his
memories burdens him dearly. I cannot forget the tortured expression flickering
across his face as he momentarily lost control. I want to help him, but I must
not corner him and force the confessions from his lips; he needs to initiate
the discussion. As my concerns deepen, I am powerless to relieve them since I
know I must wait patiently for him to readily talk to me in confidence.
As my body begins to wail, listing its
objections to the strenuous exercise, we finally come to the field of steel
windmills seated at the edge of the suburbs. The enormous fans pulse in time
with the bursts of howling wind, and the familiar repetitive hum relaxes my
frantic mind. We are within a mile of my home now, and the sun is still loftily
positioned, though it is descending rapidly into oblivion.
“I love the sound of the mills,” Tate
reminisces. “It’s so tranquil. And steady. Unaffected by the fluctuations of
life.”
I glance at his closed eyes as his face
loosens into a contented smile of pure ecstasy.
“Things would be easier if it we just had
to follow a prescribed plan: harness the wind. No cutthroat competition, no
exams, no crippling judgments. Just executing God’s will; the function he
molded us for.”
Sorrow rises in my chest as I listen to
his musings, tinged by the arduous experiences of his schooling. I identify
with his pain and his hope for a brighter future, but reason quells this naïve
faith.
I stroke his arm with the tips of my
fingers to convey my appreciation for his
smirks, visibly glad that his jibe was able to infuriate me even slightly.
“He’s thinking of proposing,” I reveal.
“Really?” Tate exclaims. “It’s funny; I
just can’t picture Rian as a family man. The whole wife and kids thing seems so…
drab.”
I am puzzled by this response. Marriage
is just an accepted way of life; always has been in human society.
“So you would rather be alone all your
life?” I probe, kicking a stray pebble across the path.
“No. I just don’t know that I am ready
for marriage. We are still in school, and for now my priority has to be my
education and achieving a distinguished title.”
I process this information, and continue
dragging my feet along the floor littered with crunchy autumn leaves.
“I guess I respect that. But I want the
dream someday. A partner to stand by me through thick and thin. Children to
inspire to greatness. It just sounds so… comforting.”
Tate
spends a moment in silent contemplation before replying, “I’ve seen the ‘dream’
evolve into a nightmare before my own eyes. I don’t want to risk that happening
to me. If my spouse became a monster, or even worse if I did… I don’t even want
to think.”
I
can see the pain tainting his face: his lower lip quivering, eyes damp with
suppressed tears, a nervous hand running over his scalp. He has been through so
much with his father, and I don’t even know the half of it. Tate is careful to
keep his private life under wraps and emit a lighthearted cheerfulness in
public, thus containing the truth within a heavy heart and obscuring it from
view.
I reach for his hand, but he swivels away
from me, flinching. He briskly swipes his eyes and pastes a numb smile on his
face that fails to reach his sorrowful emerald eyes.
“Anyways, to be named after the amygdala
in homage to your intelligence; it’s a little strange and a true marker of
arrogance, at least on her parent’s part,” Tate blurts. We are back to
discussing Amy, as if the last few minutes never occurred.
“She’ll be there this week, so we can
collect more evidence to support our opinions. Ultimately, I just want her to
take care of Rian. If he is happy, I will learn to be too.”
We continue in awkward silence, both of
us considering the conversation that transpired moments before. I wish Tate would
let me in, because I know the task of bottling his emotions and repressing his
memories burdens him dearly. I cannot forget the tortured expression flickering
across his face as he momentarily lost control. I want to help him, but I must
not corner him and force the confessions from his lips; he needs to initiate
the discussion. As my concerns deepen, I am powerless to relieve them since I
know I must wait patiently for him to readily talk to me in confidence.
As my body begins to wail, listing its
objections to the strenuous exercise, we finally come to the field of steel
windmills seated at the edge of the suburbs. The enormous fans pulse in time
with the bursts of howling wind, and the familiar repetitive hum relaxes my
frantic mind. We are within a mile of my home now, and the sun is still loftily
positioned, though it is descending rapidly into oblivion.
“I love the sound of the mills,” Tate
reminisces. “It’s so tranquil. And steady. Unaffected by the fluctuations of
life.”
I glance at his closed eyes as his face
loosens into a contented smile of pure ecstasy.
“Things would be easier if it we just had
to follow a prescribed plan: harness the wind. No cutthroat competition, no
exams, no crippling judgments. Just executing God’s will; the function he
molded us for.”
Sorrow rises in my chest as I listen to
his musings, tinged by the arduous experiences of his schooling. I identify
with his pain and his hope for a brighter future, but reason quells this naïve
faith.
I stroke his arm with the tips of my
fingers to convey my appreciation for his
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