Forever A Lemon Drip. Drip. Drip. The coffee trickles through the coffee maker. Drip. The stool underneath me grows ever more uncomfortable. Drip. The rain falls on the roof, making a constant pattering noise. Patapatapatapata. Drip. I shift positions on my stool, attempting to find a more comfortable one. Patapatapatapata. Drip. Drip. The second hand on the clock ticks. Tick. Patapata. Drip. Drip. I ponder life. What is life about? Is there any reason at all to do anything? I am content just sitting here. Tick. Patapata. Drip. Drip. I listen to the cacophony of small noises. Tick. Patapata. Drip. The walls creak. Tick. Patapata. Drip. I listen. I wonder. Did he have to die? Tick. Patapata. Drip. I think. His name was Marten. Tick. Patapata. Drip. Was it my fault? It was me, after all, who distracted him. I recall that day. It seems like it was just yesterday. I clearly remember every detail. The number of buttons on his light green jacket, and afterwards, the deep red of his blood. It was a windy autumn day in western Ohio. The sky was a shallow blue, and there were no clouds to be seen. My best friend Marten lived across the street. Both of our families were farming families, and that meant a lot of large machinery for two curious ten year-olds to mess around with. Tick. Patapata. Drip. We had both agreed that we had outgrown climbing over the eight foot cement wall, and leaning out of the loft of the barn almost enough that we fell out. Those didn’t provide very much of a thrill anymore. Tick. Patapata. Drip. I had suggested that we climb onto the barn roof. It was three times as tall as our one-story house, after all. But Marten had grander plans. He thought that we should try climbing the silo. I protested, saying that my father had forbid me from ever doing it, but I finally agreed since the ladder attached to the silo was on the opposite side of the silo from the house, so nobody would see us. Tick. Patapata. Drip. We had difficulty getting up to the silo, since the first rung of the attached ladder was at least ten feet off the ground. We quietly took the stepladder from the garage and, after checking to make sure nobody was looking, set it up underneath the silo. We successfully climbed to the top, and sat there, enjoying the moment, looking at the endless blue sky and the countryside. Tick. Patapata. Drip. But eventually we came down, for fear of falling off or being seen, although at 100 feet up we would barely have been visible. We slowly climbed down the silo, and safely reached the ground. We returned the stepladder to the garage, and sat on the porch watching the sunset. It was the most beautiful I had ever seen, with myriad yellows, reds, and oranges, although Marten argued that the one we had seen when our families went camping together at Yellowstone National Park was better. Tick. Patapata. Drip. As the day drew to a close, we talked. There was no topic in particular, just snippets of information that barely related to the previous comment. We talked about asteroids, fish, lucky clovers, and everything in between. Then I did something that surprised me. I initiated a dare, to see who could stare at the sun for a longer time. Tick. Patapata. Drip. Marten thought about it for a moment, then agreed. I went first. I stared at the sun. At first it was easy, but it began to get harder, almost as if the sun was getting brighter and brighter. Once a yellow spot began to form on my vision, I stopped. “How long?” I asked Marten. “Seven seconds.” He replied. It had seemed much longer than that. I told him that he couldn’t do any better. He promptly began to stare at the sun, to prove that he could withstand more than me. 1… 2… 3… I counted. 8… 9… Marten stopped at ten. “I can do better.” I commented, beginning again. This time, I did not stop when a yellow spot formed. It grew bigger, until it completely blocked my vision. I continued, and the yellow spot turned red. I could not see at all. When I finally stopped, I closed my eyes and turned away. I counted to thirty before the red finally began to fade away. “fifty-nine seconds. Easy to beat.” Marten said coolly, going for another round. Again, I counted. He passed seventy seconds. Then eighty. Then ninety. “Marten, you win. You should really stop.” I said. He stopped, and my mother came out and said Marten had to go home. “Can you get home okay?” I asked Marten. I hadn’t been able to see for thirty seconds, and Marten had stared for a good thirty seconds longer than I. “I’ll be fine.” Marten said. I said farewell to Marten, and he began walking across the road. He was walking a little bit crooked, and he stumbled. Suddenly, a car came out of nowhere and smashed into him. The car driver, realizing what he had done, sped away. I rushed to Marten. His light green jacket was covered in dark red blood. Two of the eight buttons were gone. His large green eyes bored into my brown ones. I regained my senses and sprinted back into the house, telling my mother and father. My father called 9-1-1 and my mother and I ran back to Marten. I went and told his parents. Tick. Patapata. Drip. I wonder. How did I not see the car? Marten had said he was fine. Why didn’t he see it coming? Was it my fault? Tick. Patapata. Drip. The ambulance was there soon, but they declared that Marten was already dead. They took his body. A lot of people asked me questions. I told them everything, except that it was me who had dared him to look into the sun. I didn’t know the license plate number. I was too surprised to even note the color of the car. Tick. Patapata. Drip. I go back and forth in my mind. It was my fault. I distracted him. No, it couldn’t have been my fault. He should have seen it coming. But I dared him to stare at the sun. He said he was fine. He should have seen it. Tick. Patapata. Drip. I stare out the window. It has begun to rain. Clouds block out the sunlight, and rivulets of water run down the window. I can see the road from here. And the house where Marten’s parents used to live. It is as if the sky is crying, and the salty tears are falling down, down, and drenching everything that is exposed to them. The road is slick, and the lights inside the house across the road reflect in it, so the road is spotted with warm yellow spots. Tick. Patapata. Drip. A car goes by, and the doppler effect is put into action. It kicks up a fine mist behind it, temporarily dimming the reflections of the lights in the road. I look out at the silo. Water is streaming down the bumpy surface, pooling up at the bottom. The pool is at least ten feet in diameter. Our gravel and dirt driveway has become mud. An immense sadness wells up inside of me. He is truly gone, I think. Tick. Patapata. Drip. It was three years ago. Marten’s parents have moved away. A new family has moved into their old house. Yet I still live in the past. Tick. Patapata. Drip. Without me noticing it, the sun has moved. It is no longer afternoon, but evening. The clouds block the sunset from view. My parents don’t even bother to ask me to come to dinner. They know I will end up taking the cold, leftover food up to my room at midnight anyway. They eat in the dining room, not in the kitchen, out of respect for my privacy. Tick. Patapata. Drip. Even though the door is shut, I still hear my parents’ silverware clacking and their voices murmuring through the door. I hear detached sections of their conversation. Psychiatrist, they say. Needs help. Roast beef. Coworkers. Black holes. Socks. Tennis. Tick. Patapata. Drip. They finish dinner, and go about the house, doing anything that needs to be done. The sun has set outside. Migrating geese fly by. I watch them until they turn into specks in the distance and then disappear altogether, their squawks and quacks fading into nothingness. Tick. Patapata. Drip. Life. I think to myself. How do simple elements, matter, come together to create a living, thinking, thing? Why? How can I live without Marten? I suppose I have been, but just barely. Tick. Patapata. Drip. I sit there for a long time, thinking, but not really thinking at all. At some point, I walk upstairs, lay down on my bed with my clothes still on, and fall asleep. Forever A Lemon 6-8 Page 1