something new to look forward to—something new that doesn't revolve around the act of procuring food.
It's a luxury, and we both indulge in it.
His poems intrigue me. Edgar Allan Poe isn't the only writer he likes. Thomas Hardy is one of his favorites among many, many others. But no matter which poet he quotes, all the verses have something in common: they speak of pain, darkness, and acts that are beyond forgiving.
I don't understand why he's into this kind of literature. There is beauty in it, sure. It's just a bit depressing. In the beginning I thought it was just his taste, but now I suspect it might be something else.
In our question rounds during chores, he's careful to stay away from unpleasant topics, and I've learned not to push him. But when he scratches words in the mud, things change. His eyes have that same tide of emotion they have when I accidentally slip into topics he doesn’t want to discuss. That's why I suspect his refuge in depressing poetry is related to those less joyous experiences he keeps from me. With every poem he shares, that inexplicable urge to hug him—or find a way, any way, to comfort him—grows. I want to make his dark cloud disappear. I need it to disappear, because I can’t stand to see him tormented.
I'm learning almost as much about him from the few lines he writes in the mud every day as I do from our questioning when we do chores. I counter with poems that couldn't be more different. They're cheerful and light. It's not that I was ever into cheerful poetry; I was never into poetry at all. I like novels. I'm surprised I remember any poems at all. The last time I read poetry, I was a high school senior. For some reason the sunny, bubbly poems stuck. At any rate, Tristan seems to show as much interest in my poems as I do in his.
When we finish with the poetry session, I hand Tristan the bow and arrow. "This is your chance to impress me." He claims he feels well enough to teach me how to shoot.
He frowns, positions the arrow, and pulls the string of the bow. I try to memorize every action, every movement of his muscles, hoping to be able to reproduce them when my turn comes. His wide shoulders hunch forward, his strong arms gripping the bow and the arrow. The muscles on his arms and shoulder blades are flexed; I can see their sharp contour beneath his shirt. The muscles on his stomach are tightened, too. The defined packs on his abdomen are visible through his damp, clinging shirt. He told me time and again that in order to hit the target it is most important to find my balance and keep myself centered. He claimed I could achieve that if I contract my abdominal muscles. I’ve tried, but I see now that I haven't done it properly.
Tristan aims at our makeshift target. And misses it by two feet. I start laughing. "I'm not impressed."
I am still laughing when Tristan releases the second arrow, which hits the target right in the middle. As do the third and the fourth. He launches the fifth one up in the air at a bird that passes over us. I yelp, covering my mouth with my hands when the bird lands on the ground, the arrow stuck in its chest. He aims the next arrow at the target again, hitting straight in the center cluster. The same with the arrow after it.
And that's when the pieces of the puzzle start coming together, one arrow at a time. His knowledge of survival skills, like building a fire from scratch and the edibility test. His nightmares.
"You were in the Army," I say.
Tristan's knuckles whiten on the bow, his jaw tightening. He lowers the bow, walking to the target to collect the arrows, and then picks up the fallen bird. Not once does he glance in my direction.
"Tristan?" I ask. "Am I right?"
He slumps on the tree trunk that serves as a bench, and hunches over the arrows, inspecting their tips.
"Yes. I was deployed in Afghanistan." His voice is freakishly calm, almost impassive. I sit next to him, a sudden wave of admiration engulfing me.
"We should find some
It's a luxury, and we both indulge in it.
His poems intrigue me. Edgar Allan Poe isn't the only writer he likes. Thomas Hardy is one of his favorites among many, many others. But no matter which poet he quotes, all the verses have something in common: they speak of pain, darkness, and acts that are beyond forgiving.
I don't understand why he's into this kind of literature. There is beauty in it, sure. It's just a bit depressing. In the beginning I thought it was just his taste, but now I suspect it might be something else.
In our question rounds during chores, he's careful to stay away from unpleasant topics, and I've learned not to push him. But when he scratches words in the mud, things change. His eyes have that same tide of emotion they have when I accidentally slip into topics he doesn’t want to discuss. That's why I suspect his refuge in depressing poetry is related to those less joyous experiences he keeps from me. With every poem he shares, that inexplicable urge to hug him—or find a way, any way, to comfort him—grows. I want to make his dark cloud disappear. I need it to disappear, because I can’t stand to see him tormented.
I'm learning almost as much about him from the few lines he writes in the mud every day as I do from our questioning when we do chores. I counter with poems that couldn't be more different. They're cheerful and light. It's not that I was ever into cheerful poetry; I was never into poetry at all. I like novels. I'm surprised I remember any poems at all. The last time I read poetry, I was a high school senior. For some reason the sunny, bubbly poems stuck. At any rate, Tristan seems to show as much interest in my poems as I do in his.
When we finish with the poetry session, I hand Tristan the bow and arrow. "This is your chance to impress me." He claims he feels well enough to teach me how to shoot.
He frowns, positions the arrow, and pulls the string of the bow. I try to memorize every action, every movement of his muscles, hoping to be able to reproduce them when my turn comes. His wide shoulders hunch forward, his strong arms gripping the bow and the arrow. The muscles on his arms and shoulder blades are flexed; I can see their sharp contour beneath his shirt. The muscles on his stomach are tightened, too. The defined packs on his abdomen are visible through his damp, clinging shirt. He told me time and again that in order to hit the target it is most important to find my balance and keep myself centered. He claimed I could achieve that if I contract my abdominal muscles. I’ve tried, but I see now that I haven't done it properly.
Tristan aims at our makeshift target. And misses it by two feet. I start laughing. "I'm not impressed."
I am still laughing when Tristan releases the second arrow, which hits the target right in the middle. As do the third and the fourth. He launches the fifth one up in the air at a bird that passes over us. I yelp, covering my mouth with my hands when the bird lands on the ground, the arrow stuck in its chest. He aims the next arrow at the target again, hitting straight in the center cluster. The same with the arrow after it.
And that's when the pieces of the puzzle start coming together, one arrow at a time. His knowledge of survival skills, like building a fire from scratch and the edibility test. His nightmares.
"You were in the Army," I say.
Tristan's knuckles whiten on the bow, his jaw tightening. He lowers the bow, walking to the target to collect the arrows, and then picks up the fallen bird. Not once does he glance in my direction.
"Tristan?" I ask. "Am I right?"
He slumps on the tree trunk that serves as a bench, and hunches over the arrows, inspecting their tips.
"Yes. I was deployed in Afghanistan." His voice is freakishly calm, almost impassive. I sit next to him, a sudden wave of admiration engulfing me.
"We should find some
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