Forgetting Sylva

Transition

"Because I'm sick," I say, understanding.

She starts to shake her head, but I don't look away, and she nods slightly. "That, and also the fact that Marc's known you for so long. You're his best friend, and the way he talks about you... He loves you. And I want you to like me, because it's so important to him, but also because, from what I've heard, you're amazing. And you're such a big part of his life, an enormous part. And I feel so small in comparison. And I'm talking too much. And I'm stuffing everything up. And I'm sorry. I'll stop talking now."

I smile a little and look out at the graveyard of trees; of lost hopes and dreams; a place of grief and pain and loss, for someone else, but happiness, for me. I think about how strange it is, that a single place can mean so many different things to different people. For Richard, it is a gallery of grief; Linda, his wife, likes to pretend it does not exist, as she has not known pain like we have. It's not wrong or unfeeling of her; she is like most people, in that. For Marc, this is a place of childhood memories, of lengthy discussions and a time when we were simply allowed to get lost in a place that seemed to have its own standard of time. For Olive, it is a place of spiders and creatures; a simple dislike of the rawness of nature keeps her inside. And, for me, this is another world. A sacred place that is important to me because it is important to others. Like the ceiling of my room, it is cluttered; each tree a fallen dream; a broken hope; a bleeding sorrow. It is like me. It is broken and true. It does not hide a single thing.

"You don't need to be so nervous," I tell her. "Marc talks about you, too. And he likes you. A lot." Her hands, in her lap, still as I speak. "He told me about how you met." She opens her mouth, and then closes it.

"You two must talk a lot," she says, finally.

I laugh a little. "There's not much else I can do." She looks at me, as if unsure whether or not it is alright to smile. She must decide that it's fine, because she does, and it lights up her face, and I am glad that she is becoming more comfortable with me because this is what Marc wants. And I think I like her; she seems nice, and interesting, beneath her nerves.

"He doesn't talk much, usually," she tells me, a little reluctant, her voice slow and nervous. "Well, he does. But not about important things."

"Marcus is full of contradictions," I say, and she smiles wider. "Disagree with him as often as you can. He doesn't realise how smart he is, but when you can get him to that place, where he's hardly thinking before he speaks..." I trail off, and my smile widens, too. "Well, there's something there. He doesn't know it, but there's something, something different." I can feel words building up inside of me, and I let them out, because I need to, I cannot hold them back. "He talks most here, I've noticed. Or at the edge of the cliff. Not too close, because he's afraid of heights, even if he won't admit it, but close enough so you can see rocks at the bottom. In the dark, as well. You'd be surprised what he says. The most important things you will ever hear will be said in the dark."

Hannah pulls her hair over one shoulder and tucks it behind her ear. "That was very wise," she says.

I smile and stand. "I am a very wise person." She stands, and offers her hand to me, a little less unsure than before.

"Do you need help?" she asks.

I don't, but I take her hand. "Thanks," I say.

"No problem," she replies. And we walk out through the trees again, towards the edge of the property. And, as we talk, slowly heading towards the cliffs, I feel the tension between us ease. And think that, maybe, I may be adding a new person to the list of those I care about. And it makes me both happy and sad, because now there is one more person to miss me when I'm gone.