Charcoal Drawing

Charcoal Drawing

It doesn’t all go at once, you know. Think August to October. At first, you see the tips of the leaves turn a crisp autumn color, then the green of the lush grass slowly fades into a scratchy straw color, the blue sky becomes cloudy while it makes preparations for the winter snow, and pretty soon you’re mourning the loss of your favorite swimsuit and outdoor ice cream parlor.

Red was lost faster than the robin flew overhead, orange molded with the rest of the unpicked pumpkins in the patch, and yellow died way back with the spring tulips.

The world is colorless.

Multiple sclerosis, ew, it sounds too clinical to say out loud. Neat, if that’s the right word? Like it could be all summed up and filed away. Inside me, it’s not neat. It’s slowly breaking me down, forcing my body to fight itself.

The myelin, the fat that wraps around my neurons like insulation, is being stripped away bit by bit. When the insulation is gone, the signals from nerve to nerve are still being sent, they just are misinterpreted or lost.

My body missed the memo, doesn’t it know? Everybody loves mail.

Before my optic nerve became so inflamed that optic neuritis took over, I first had the privilege of CAPD (Central Audio Processing Disorder). It’s a lovely little game my brain likes to play.

People speak to me and I sit there with a blank stare on my face, so they project a little louder. It’s really hard to explain that it’s not my ears that don’t work, it’s the connection to my brain that causes this really awkward moment of silence we are having. I hear the sound of words, just not the words themselves.

It’s easier to stay in, less interactions to hyperfixate on later, less explaining I have to do. But I’m a simple man who enjoys his simple life.

A simple pleasure: an evening walk.

The weather has a slight crisp, I enjoy this time of year. When Mother Earth isn’t trying too hard to be happy and sun-soaked, but it isn’t quite depressed enough to leave me with a bitter chill either. It’s just existing.

I walk to the small ice cream stand just a few blocks away. A real life mom and pop shop, the kind of place that’s nostalgic even to first timers.

Demyelinating lesions are the easiest thing for most people to relate to. You know that feeling when you wake up and your arm is asleep? It’s been asleep for so long that it’s not just pins and needles, it’s painful? Well, welcome to my life. Your tour guide will be with you shortly.

Every step to the ice cream shop hurts a bit, some more, some less. It’s never a sure thing with this condition I call home.

I finally reach the small wood paneled shack. The string lights and rocking chairs warm my heart. Light and a place to sit, two things I still can appreciate. I step into line and look down the list of ice cream flavors. I know what I want, but it’s fun to pretend to be adventurous.

“Elijah!”

The woman at the counter knows me well. I might be the only man that ever comes here without a date on his arm, she wants to set me up with her daughter.

I smile back at her.

“What ca…. you?”

It’s a weird sensation. I can hear the whirl of the freezer, but I can’t hear her words. I move on, I can fill in the blanks.

“A brownie sundae please, Margret.”

“…honey.”

4.17, that’s what she said. In case you were wondering. I came here enough to know my sundae was $4.17, and luckily that means I came here enough that Margret’s script is predictable.

I tap my card.

The rocking chair with the big flower on the top is the one I favor. It used to be blue, I guess it still probably is. I cannot confirm, only imagine.

The other chair, the one with small dainty flowers and a once pink coat, is usually empty. But today Agnes is sitting there, her legs are crossed as she uses the tip of her left toe to rock herself back and forth.

Agnes is beautiful. Her long dark hair perfectly frames her small features. Freckles dance around her face, creating a beautifully visible contrast that satisfies my optic nerve. Her legs are long despite her average height, her medium wash wide leg jeans crop perfectly above her ankle, revealing the embroidered heart on her sock.

Agnes looks up from her ice cream and smiles at me. I sit down on the creaky chair, legs pointed towards her, eyes pointed towards my sundae.

“Hi Elijah,” she says with almost a snicker in her voice.

“Hi Agnes.”

I should ask how she is or what ice cream she got, but it’s easier for everyone if I don’t let the conversation get beyond the predictable prompts.

It seems lonely, and it can be, but I’ve become rather content in my silent life.

Hi, I’m Elijah. I watch the contrast and listen to the whirl of the freezer from a seated position.

“You always stop at hi.”

She said something, but all I heard was her mumbling accompanied by the sound of her spoon scraping the styrofoam ice cream cup.

I look up, she is too. It looks like I’m blushing when really I’m just flushed. I imagine her eyes can pick up the redness in my face.

“Yeah,” I say without any confidence in what I’m agreeing to. Yes is usually a safe bet.

“You don’t want to talk to me?”

Her words are blunt, sarcastic maybe. She sits back in her seat a bit more. I maybe can’t see color, but I can see body language. I did something to offend her.

“Sorry, I—”

I hate this part.

“I’m not sure what you said.” I feel cowardly, like a burden. She didn’t know this is what she was signing up for when she signed the social contract for this interaction.

She does a half giggle. The sides of her hair fall in front of her face as she looks down to the ground. I feel like I should giggle back, but I’m not sure what is funny. I’m inconveniencing this poor woman to repeat herself.

“I just asked, why do you always stop at hi,” again, a smile still wide across her face.

I heard her this time, but the awkward silence still hangs in the air. I’m just simply not sure what to say. I cannot possibly tell her that I stop at hi because I’m embarrassed when I mishear. It would require me to explain my sickness, all the moving parts. It’s like the equivalent of holding up two fingers when someone’s glasses are off as if they can’t see.

Elijah! Stop spiraling, it’s still silent. Say something.

“I just don’t want it to be awkward when I mishear you.”

She has a puzzled look on her face. The side smirk reveals a cute dimple on her left cheek.

“You knew you’d mishear me before I even spoke?”

I think my only way out is the truth. The only other explanation is that I’m a time traveler or a clairvoyant, so I’m not sure lying would work. This disease, this chronically debilitating thing, is something I keep to myself, the burden is mine to bear. But Agnes asked, and it felt sincere. The way her eyes are fixed on mine despite the setting sun perfectly above my head, casting rays of light into her eyes, feels like a connection I cannot seem to break.

“Have you heard of MS?” she can probably hear the rasp in my voice as I reluctantly ask the question.

“A litt—” a bird chirps, my brain switches “—much.”

I stare blankly. This might be my nightmare.

“What is it?” she clarifies. My puzzledness was visible, she must be good with body language too.

“It’s why I stop at hi.” My coping mechanism is humor.

She pauses, but she doesn’t laugh. Oh no oh no oh no.

“Okay.” she says the small word softly. If I wasn't looking at her mouth I would have been concerned I missed the last half of the sentence.

I just stare at her, mentally preparing myself for follow up questions, for awkwardness, for the simplicity of my walk to be completely removed.

She smiles at me.

“So, whatcha get?” she gestures to my ice cream.

No follow up? No pity or apologies? Am I not broken to her?

I can’t help but let out a little chuckle as I hold up the cup.

“Brownie sundae.”

“Good choice.”

She angles her cup down so I can see the creamy vanilla ice cream atop her remaining brownie pieces.

We smile at each other. The silence normally would panic me, what did I miss? I’d ask myself. But this silence fell perfectly between us.

This time, I am blushing.

That's when it stopped feeling like work, getting past “hi.”

***

The rocking chair with the flower carved at the top is still my favorite. Even if it’s a little creaky and worn, who isn’t? I imagine the blue paint has faded in the sun, still cannot confirm that. Some things don’t come back.

The chair has changed, but I haven’t much, the world is still a charcoal drawing, sentences are still fragmented, white noise is still my worst enemy, and I still love brownie sundaes.

But there is more to listen to now.

Laughter mainly.

It doesn’t always come in clearly. Sometimes it arrives in pieces, like everything else. A burst here, a fragment there.

I’ve learned that I don’t need the whole thing, I have everything I need.

Margret’s daughter still sits beside me in the potentially pink rocking chair with small dainty flowers carved in the top. Sometimes we talk, but mostly, we sit in comfortable silence and watch the little feet on the deck.

“Dad—”

I look up before the rest of it reaches me.

The small dimple on his left cheek emerges as he smiles at me.

Hi, I’m Elijah. I watch the contrast of my son’s smile, same dimple as hers, and listen to their laughter from a seated position.