Everything starts with the decision – to stay, to leave, to change or stand still. And I… I wanted to change…
“Ieva, I think one of the turtles passed away! Can you come and have a look?”
My mum furrows her eyebrows as she gently holds the turtle in her hands.
“He was fine yesterday, and today I found him floating above the water.”
I take him from her arms, closely examining his body. I tilt it to see if there is any sign of life. Yet, all his limbs are soft and loose.
“Mum, I think he is gone.”
She looks sad and gazes at the remaining turtle hiding in the corner of the bathtub, and sighs.
“He will be lonely alone.”
My mother never intended to raise or take care of any turtles. When I was 4 or 5, my aunt came to visit and pushed one of those small suffocating plastic bags with two turtles inside. My mother was livid. As I grew older, I understood it wasn’t about her suddenly bringing in unexpected pets and all that it entailed, but about the cruelty of it all. I remember her sitting me down and telling me that we were going to raise those turtles, but they shouldn’t be here. It is not their place, and they need to be free. I asked her back then, “Are they sad? What were they separated from their mother?” And she said, probably, they’re far away from home now, and we need to be kind to them.
We watched many documentaries about turtles. I remember asking my mother if we could bring them back home one day, but she only sighed. I was cautious, from time to time caressing them gently, and when we moved from the flat to the house, she gave up her laundry room and made a home for them in the huge bathtub. She told me back then that she thought the aquarium was getting too small for them, and they deserved comfort.
Two more turtles came to the strange laundry room sanctuary when my father’s friend’s wife, who brought them for her children, grew tired of them and was thinking about how to dispose of them. My mum told her to bring them to her. And one day, instead of two, it was four turtles. And later, my mother installed an aquarium in our house when someone was giving it away with all the fish. It became a thing: new fish came once in a while, and my mother always took them in without a word.
The first two turtles passed away when I was in my mid-twenties. And as we buried them, I wished they would be reborn somewhere where they can be free.
They say turtles die to avert a tragedy about to fall upon a household. I don’t remember who told me that, or whether it holds any truth.
We buried the little friend in the garden.
Death is a strange phenomenon. We all will be gone one day, and those we love will pass without any prior notice. Yet, somehow we do forget to appreciate the moments we have – always forgetting that we are running on borrowed time. I’m just not sure; I never was sure what the conditions of these loans were. One thing is sure, though: the living are left with their regrets, with their heartbreak. So why are we so prideful? Why don’t we talk and wake up from the delirium only when the threshold has been crossed?
All I can think about is the funeral and all those white carnations, and how my godfather still had a picture of me hanging in his basement, despite us being out of each other’s orbits for a decade. I should have called. My father cried – he should have been more understanding. Yet pride – pride asks for far too high a price to pay – we just realise it a bit too late.
And here I am, around 2000 km from the geographic North Pole, over the bridge. Time is frozen with 24 hours of light and no signal. I truly feel I am far away from all that white noise, in this bubble of serenity. A voice brings me back; I almost forgot I was in the middle of a conversation. I repeat the question that has just been asked.
“My biggest heartbreak? Well, it wasn’t from romantic love. As much as it pains me to admit, my heart was broken to pieces by a friend – I always saw her as part of me, as she was a twin to my soul. Yet, perhaps that was an illusion with a lot of fancy wrapping you tell yourself to fill the emptiness in between and justify inaction or absence. Ironically, some people think that because you constantly show up, you take it for granted, as if a shared past were a tight chain impossible to break. None of this is given; we are just too afraid to admit that we were pouring our hearts into an illusion that was a creation of my own doing.
And I tried, even when I felt so small, even when I tried to be understanding, and when it all failed, I tried again. And we spoke, and I expressed myself truly, and tried again. And it was all in vain.”
“Do you feel resentful?”
“I thought I first felt resentful. I truly did. Yet I wasn’t. That surprised me a lot. All that effort, all the time I was given, did not matter much as I did as much for myself as I did for her. None of the connections between two people is given. They will not last without maintenance, and too often we are too patient with others, too hopeful. And we tried to fix it over and over again.”
“Do you regret trying to fix it?”
“No. I asked myself often if I was wrong. If it’s all a big misunderstanding, and if we start communicating more openly, things will shift and we will grow. Yet, at the end of the day, it is not how I wanted to be loved. Nothing much changed on the surface, yet beneath, everything shifted – emotions faded, and indifference quietly took their place. As it is, you don’t wait for a phone to ring anymore, and there’s no sadness in missing a call.
And I remember, as if it were yesterday, I was nervously stirring my cup of tea while she spoke, and what she said broke me – not the actions of the past, but the words that came when we started to communicate more openly.
All these years, she never bothered to ask or listen; she just assumed, jumped to conclusions, and measured me through her own understanding; she had prejudices against me, my choices, my background, and so on. Yet it didn’t make me angry. Oh no. I wasn’t angry, nor was I sad. What was I feeling? A disappointment. Those very fragile strings of trust got snapped.
She suddenly wasn’t the person I wanted to call when I was sad or wanted advice. She was there – still lovely and still mattered – yet no longer in a way that I would drop everything and run towards her if she called, telling me she needed me. And the thought crossed my mind that perhaps she would never have called, as I wasn’t that person for her to begin with. Like dominoes, everything felt as if it fell apart, yet nothing changed. Well, that is not really true. I changed.”
“You learned this relatively young. The bittersweet nature of some connections, and that sometimes you need to stop trying to revive a dying flower, as no matter how much water you pour in, if the soil is spoiled and not being replaced, there are not enough nutrients to sustain its lifespan.”
“I guess it is just part of human existence.”
It is pouring. I am in the park walking a dog, and for some strange reason, I can’t stop thinking about how memory works, and perhaps it is why so much miscommunication happens. It differs so much in how we perceive time and emotions. And those two are somehow interconnected. For some, memory and feeling are tied together by an unbreakable knot and sometimes hold them hostage; for others, memory is feeling, a moment in time that passes. I realised this way too late: not everybody builds a palace of memories in their mind, where touching any given brick brings you back in time, and once again you can see the beauty of that sunset replayed in motion, or experience a smell you thought was forgotten but is truly buried inside.
Time for me is not linear. And it is a problem, as it makes maintaining the vast majority of my relationships exceptionally hard, yet I try my hardest. I guess that’s why we cannot love the same, and sometimes it is impossible to go in the same direction, because how we perceive the world differs way too much, and nothing can bridge that gap. So many things can be doomed before they begin, as the gap in perception widens with each passing day. It’s nobody’s fault, and it is somehow terribly sad.
We are all so ordinary. Flesh and bones. Dreams, wishes, desires, hopes – even sorrows that embody us. All that differs is our perception.
Yet that is not the point. Not the ordinariness of our beings; it is that no matter how ordinary we all are, we look for somebody who would match our perception, be extraordinary to us, would shine – shine for us – and that will never be ordinary; it will never be boring. And it’s all that matters. It’s just so hard to find that light of understanding in this vast sea of people.
My phone rings, interrupting my contemplation. My mother’s voice on the other end states, “I think we should sell the grand piano.”
“Yes, Mum. I think we should.”
It’s sunny. Too sunny for my liking. The weather does not match the mood of this meeting at all.
“You still drink your coffee black, right?” he says as he places a cup of black coffee in front of me.
I ask myself why I am here, in this fancy coffee shop, wasting my time on a person I have no interest in seeing. Was it boredom? Curiosity? Or that front we managed to maintain through the years – that we are friends. Ended up as friends, despite all the shared history. And it should count for something, at least in theory.
“-She left me.” It’s all I manage to catch, and that brings my focus back to him. He doesn’t look sad or heartbroken, but there’s a subtle softness in his eyes, hinting at unspoken pain beneath his tired exterior. Yet these days, aren’t we all just masking our indifference?
“Ah, I see.”
“You seem indifferent.”
I gently offer, “I am so sorry.”
“Now it’s performative,” he says. We both chuckle, but I sense the emotional distance between us. I may feel awkward, yet he is right. I am absolutely indifferent.
“You aren’t curious at all why I dragged you out for this, and started this by ‘she left me’ after not seeing you for the past 7 years?”
I stare at him. Why should I be curious? Maybe it’s his belief that his value for others remains unchanged over time. Or perhaps, I wonder, is this indifference a shield, a way to avoid vulnerability in the face of love lost?
“You told me she will leave me. It’s like you predicted how this relationship will go and damn end like a damn…”
“-Witch,” I end him for that. “And I said all that to you? I don’t recall that time that well.”
He sighs. “You know, I truly loved her.” His voice is steady, but I do notice a flicker of vulnerability that he quickly masks with composure.
I put more sugar in my coffee. I never liked sugar in my coffee. I keep stirring that white porcelain cup, and it keeps making that cling–clang sound. I finally look at him.
“Do you think she knew you loved her so dearly?”
He pauses, fixing his gaze on me, leaving that unspoken feelings hanging in the air, which only amplifies the emotional distance between us.
“Did you know? That I loved you dearly?”
“No, I didn’t.”
He is taken aback, as he was expecting a firm yes, and there was no way in this world that either of us would have known about his profound love. Yet what startled him the most was what I didn’t even pause to wonder. My answer was flat and too fast. And somehow I sense I possibly needed to wait – but why? To spare his feelings? Is it even healthy for him?
“I see.”
“You know, love needs to be expressed. It’s not a silent agreement that is obvious for every party involved.”
“Have you ever felt bad that you weren’t enough?” – he quickly adds. – “My therapist thought it was a good idea to ask you this.”
“No. Because I was always enough. It’s you who weren’t. Well, it’s wrong wording. We weren’t enough for each other, as we weren’t right for each other to begin with. I just realised it sooner, and you cannot, till this day, let go of your pride and admit what you felt for me wasn’t love, because what you loved wasn’t me, but an idea of me.”
I hate people like you the most.
“My trouble, my pain is more unique and different.”
You know, everybody suffers. One deals with an alcoholic father, another with an abusive partner, another with a narcissistic mother. They smile, and they don’t know how to leave because, damn, they really do not have a way.
It’s a privilege, and you know you are unique in that regard. You have the privilege to leave, but you don’t, because that would take away the distinctive flavour of your character, your fucking sex appeal. I am tired of your ignorance and constant judgment of all these strangers. I am so tired – yet I don’t say any of that to her; it would make no difference. She would only become defensive, and perhaps that would be a pretty insensitive thing to say.
Instead, I respond with this:
“You know, ignorance comes from a lack of knowledge and from the indirect repetition of the same information in slightly different forms. Nothing is permanent, nothing lasts forever, and there is no perfection. Yet we would rather chase it than stop to admire the imperfect sky on an imperfect day with imperfect people. We trick ourselves into thinking that we need better, that we seek better, that we can be better, and that we deserve better. But what’s the point, if we do not know how to be happy with what we have now?”
“Here you go again.”
“Again?”
“I will be honest with you here: it’s why you are alone. You make things too complicated and should lower your standards.”
I am not sure how the conversation got here. I have no clue.
“Wanting to be in a relationship with somebody who is your best friend is not that big of a standard.”
“Men are not made like that. Gosh, when will you grow up? We all settle. I swear to God you will end up alone with your dogs.”
“That is okay. I am perfectly aware that it is a possibility. And I am fine with it.”
Now, she has taken a back seat. I sigh.
“I would rather age alone than be with somebody who drains the life out of me. There is nothing more cruel than to be with somebody and feel invisible, to be with somebody who doesn’t care if you’re cold or had a bad day; even if there is no damn thing they can do to fix it, they still embrace you. What is the point of living with a stranger, which most of the time you want to suffocate with a pillow?”
I didn’t notice how unconsciously I made a jab at her.
She stares at a wall.
“I can leave him, right? Just walk away, without a care in the world, and be fine?”
I am floating, submerged in the cold autumn lake. These cold swims used to make me feel alive. And now, I am not so sure anymore.
There was another bombing. Another child died. More casualties. There are protests all across, and they are using brutal force. It starts raining, and I need to reach the shore. By the time I am out of the lake, I am shivering. Cranes just left. What the hell was I thinking, going for a swim in this weather?
I make myself a cup of coffee, and sigh as I can’t find a jar of honey. I just recently realised how strange it is that we all at home drink coffee with a spoon of honey, but we’re not the only ones, and that is somehow comforting. I turn off the news. They killed a lot of whales in the Faroe Islands this week for sport, I guess. In other parts of the world, they kill humans for sport, too.
Lately, all I think about is that I want to live in the middle of nowhere, near mountains, in a small village, in a culture opposite to my own. And this wish of mine is not passing with time as I once thought. Lately, it’s all I think about.
“You told me once that no matter where you live, you would pick a willow tree to call your own. I never quite understood why. But I must ask now: why did you want to meet me here, near one of your trees?”
I take my gaze off the sun that is almost set over Seoul Tower; this evening is no exception: the Han River is buzzing with people. Yet somehow, it feels like we are alone despite the uproar. I finally meet his gaze.
“Because I know if I am near my tree, I won’t waver.”
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