Archive for June 2013 | Monthly archive page
My eyes settle on the candle flickering at the center of the table, now littered with the nearly empty plates of our ten-person dinner party. I focus, watching the flame flutter and dance, then let my eyes blur until it’s nothing but a smear of light. Sharpening my vision again, I register the conversation rising and falling all around me, but make no attempt to engage. Having eaten and drunk as much as I have, I’m exhausted and overwhelmed by the effort of trying to concentrate on anything, much less a steady flow of words in a foreign language.
Nonetheless, the Danish words fill the room, lifting and dipping—near-meaningless sounds to me by this point, and nothing more. Seated near the center of the table, I’ve spent most of the meal shifting my attention between different conversations, depending on how much I could understand of each.
A lively one is going on to my left now, encompassing more than half of our group. Awareness of it crimps the edges of my consciousness, but concentration still eludes me. My attention is a helium balloon tethered to a rail, bobbing and swaying with each haphazard thought that passes through my mind.
A ripple of laughter momentarily interrupts their talking, and my host brother turns his face down toward mine, asking if I’ve understood. Shaking my head, I confess that I’ve been spacing out, that I’m far too tired to follow.
True to his self-appointed role as my most dedicated Danish teacher, he patiently explains what they’ve been talking about, bit by bit. My host mother joins in, her beautifully-phrased English pleasantly filling in some more information, and when they all pick up in Danish again I’m astonished to find that I’m suddenly part of it, understanding nearly everything.
My attention is fixed now, unwavering. They talk, passing the conversation between them like a ball, and I follow along with great curiosity. Several of the words they’ve just taught me act as keys to everything being said. Now that I have them, the syllables that were mere smudges of sound just a moment ago have become fascinating, bursting with significance.
A brief lull settles into the conversation and I choose that moment to speak, adding my own thoughts. The Danish words tumble out with ease, now seamlessly joined with the rest of my vocabulary. Six surprised faces turn toward me, and they urge me on, invite me in.
Where just moments ago I was drifting aimlessly, I’m now purposefully riding this wave, elated by my new comprehension and astonished at the difference it makes. Any residual fatigue is entirely gone; all I feel now is energy, the power of the words that are now part of what I’m able to do, part of who I am.
Hours later, my head finally on the pillow, I find the words are still active, still swimming—eager to perform again, to make meaning through me. Awash in gratitude, my mind at last lowers itself into sleep.
My brother and I float side by side in black inner tubes, he in the smaller one and I in the larger. Their peculiar, ancient rubbery smell mixes with the familiar scent of lake water warmed by a relentless summer sun.
Dragonflies hover and flit around us. Occasionally one stops to rest on a tube, its iridescent wings catching the late morning light. My tube’s the one that has our grandmother’s maiden name painted on it in crackly white letters. I run my finger along the raised surface of the O and wonder how old this tube is, how many generations have lazed here supported by its sturdiness.
“Let’s see who can stay up longer,” my brother says, hoisting himself up onto his tube. He wobbles, leaning to catch his balance until he finds his way to standing, one foot perched on each side of the tube’s slick black surface.
I smile, knowing I’m at an advantage, and pull myself up as well. We’re only a few feet apart, but as he shakes he drifts farther and farther away. I watch him waver, trying to retain his balance on the thinner rims of his tube.
I’m fully aware that on my much more buoyant and robust tube, I’m able to make waves that just might knock him over. Right now it appears that even a stray dragonfly drifting too close could tip him.
Starting slowly, looking him straight in the eyes, I sink my weight down and bounce a few times. Nervously, he tilts his gaze toward the water. Smirking, I watch his expression as the small waves rise up in concentric circles from under me and move in his direction. He trembles and, straining to keep his balance, leans back a bit too far. Instantaneously correcting himself, he tilts so far forward that before I know it he’s plunged under the water.
He comes up, hair wet and hanging like seaweed. Wiping his face with the back of his arm, he swims toward me with revenge in his eyes. Shrieking, I bounce faster, trying to move the tube away from him, but it’s no use. Before I can get very far he’s under my tube, spinning it so fast that I immediately fall backwards into the lake.
The translucent greenish-brown of the water surrounds me, cooling my sun-warmed body. I turn and kick down, down to where it gets even cooler, and rest there for a moment. Refracting rays of split sunlight blaze out under the surface of the water, catching tendrils of freshwater seaweed as they drift by. A sunfish swims past, busily shimmering green and gold.
I kick my legs again, up and up, breaking the surface of the water to gasp for sweet, humid air.
Wiping the water from my eyes, I find my brother lounging in the larger tube, looking as if he’s been sitting there all day.
He smiles slyly, splashing water in my direction with one foot. “Wanna try it again?”