To Be Still

by Ori C. Li

I wake to the sound of my grandma brushing her teeth. The turn of the faucet. Her coughing. Slamming of the door. Coughing again. She does a saunter to the kitchen and to the living room, then to the kitchen, back to the living room, to the kitchen again, then to her room. I can trace the steps of this morning march on the indents of the floorboards. Why she must be up so early in the morning, I do not know. It bothers my parents who have places to be, things to do, problems to fix. Yet my grandma, many years into retirement, is always pacing about, complaining about something that we have done or haven’t done or have yet to do.

Birds chatter in trees, hopping and flitting about. It echoes in my ears, imprinted in my mind as a garble of bird talk with their dissonant pitches and indiscernible counterpoint. I can’t take a single step forward without feeling like they might attack me. They turn their heads every half second, their eyes never fixated on a single spot, their tails constantly twitching. Sometimes I wonder if their minds are just as nervous, thinking fly fly shit eat fly shit fly fly shit fly eat eat fly.

When the semester ends I find myself helplessly lost in my own head. How is it possible for an entire four months to have come to standstill, when I am nothing but still, packing, returning things, throwing out assignments, cleaning. I am thinking about the things that could have been. I am making promises I probably will forget to keep. I am running to say goodbyes. I am searching desperately for the words to express my gratitude, attachment, and the pains of separation. And when I find the words, it is too late. I am gone, we are gone, and we have forgotten all about it, because we are all moving elsewhere.

We pack ourselves into the backseats, fitting four in a space for three. We’re going someplace, wherever it is, but it’ll take a while, and we’ve gone over capacity. Bodies are soft, as I learned from car crashes, and minds are pliable. I have sharpened myself to be the most thinnest and flexible spear. I throw myself into the train that is already speeding towards our most darkest and brightest potentials. We are riding to an industrialized Rite of Spring, churning, heaving, pounding. It makes me sick. Our generation is doomed with protests and riots and toxins and cancers. We are all the young maiden, dancing ourselves to death.

I took a conducting class before. We had to conduct this really stupid song with the stupidest lyrics about how love ends before it is begun because the world is extremely restless. As much as I detest it, it is not wrong. Things are constantly in motion. We must get to work, make deadlines, and take care of all the things that need attention. One thing I remember is that before starting the beat, you have to be still, make eye contact, and breathe. These steps are crucial to playing together and in time. Music happens before the beat, before it actually happens. If only everything could be so carefully executed like that.

Once upon a time I had a teacher who told me that I should dance when I play minuets. I said no. She never really took no for an answer. We ended up settling on the smallest of swaying for the recital. How can someone be so confident in their body? To embrace its abstractness and use it for yourself. Perhaps I knew deep down, I would never bring myself to move unless I had to. I may have already been averse to constant motion. That was the beginning of my stubborn streak. I’m glad it started then, I guess, but I’ve never gotten over that moment.

I am going to hold onto that moment for as long as I can.

Ori C. Li is an undergraduate in MA with interests in writing, drawing, and aimlessly wandering around town. She has been featured on It’s Lit With PhDj.

Illustration by Marium Roomi