Bittersweet

I was young, still so young, that I thought my lack of wholeness was somehow my fault. I had no idea everyone feels this way—that the most essential part of growing up is figuring out where your empty places are and learning how to fill them by, and for, yourself.

I know you're picturing gold candlesticks and infinity pools, but this place they made isn't decadent, no, it's rustic in the way only a rich person's place can be, with money flowing under it invisibly, so that they get to pretend they're just like the rest of us.

It was colder that winter than I knew cold could be, even though the girl from Minnesota down the hall declared it “nothing.” Out in Oregon, snow had been a gift, a two-day dusting earned by enduring months of gray, dripping sky. But the wind whipping up the Hudson from the city was so vehement that even my bone marrow froze. Every morning, I hunkered under my duvet, unsure of how I’d make it to my 9:00 a.m. Latin class. The clouds spilled endless white and Ev slept in.

It’s sad and beautiful how a few hours can come to stand for the many others that never were. One looks back and holds up a handful of hours to prove, “That was what it was, it was so perfect,” in spite of what one knows, in spite of all the other days that came before and after.

Most people believe the apple merely represented Knowledge. But we know better. It was the Fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. Nothing less than the curse of consciousness. Of moral responsibility. Of always, ever after, having to choose between what is right and what is wrong.

I wasn’t whole anymore, I thought, before realizing, with chagrin, that I hadn’t really ever felt whole. This terrible realization stopped my feet short. I was young, still so young, that I thought my lack of wholeness was somehow my fault. I had no idea everyone feels this way—that the most essential part of growing up is figuring out where your empty places are and learning how to fill them by, and for, yourself.

What matters is that lapsing is our fate. We humans are doomed to it. Worse, it is our destiny to look back longingly, with nostalgia, at our world before we changed, at who we were Before.

Ya no me sentía completa. Pero entonces me di cuenta con gran pesar de que en el fondo nunca me había sentido completa. Y esa atroz reflexión me detuvo en seco. Era joven, tanto que de alguna manera era culpa mía que estuviese incompleta, pensé. No sabía que todo el mundo se siente así, que la parte esencial del desarrollo de las personas consiste en detectar cuáles son nuestros espacios vacíos y aprender a llenarlos uno mismo.

Beside them, a sign read NO DOGS, but a man who worked the ferry patted Abby on

love of others.” With

...running simply because my feet had to keep moving or I might lose my mind - I realized that, in the span of a summer, Ev's family had swallowed all knowledge I had of who I was and what I believed. I wasn't whole anymore, I thought, before realizing, with chagrin, that I hadn't really ever felt whole. This terrible realization stopped my feet short. I was young, still so young, that I thought my lack of wholeness was somehow my fault. I had no idea everyone feels this way — that the most essential part of growing up is figuring out where your empty places are and learning how to fill them by, and for, yourself.

Although Vermont is frigid in the winter, its summertime shimmers. That’s stating the obvious to anyone who knows New England, but it was my brave new world. The mud season that begins in March and lasts well through May buffers one’s mind from winter’s ravages, so that, by the glorious day when neon-green leaf buds first appear on every tree, one can barely remember the bitter February winds streaming off the lake in great, frigid sloughs. Every year, the lake freezes solid around the shoreline, groaning and cracking under the push of the shifting wind, but, in the century-long life of Winloch, the winter had been heard only by the workingmen, men called in to plow the roads, or plumb frozen pipes, men who had the north country in their blood and the dried-up curl of French Canadian on their tongues.

Aren’t you going to apologize?” Ev asked John when we pulled into line at the ferry that would take us from New York State to Vermont. I hadn’t known there was going to be a boat ride, and I was doing my best to hide my excitement as the muddy smell of the lake wafted up to us. Being on open water seemed just the thing.

We drove ten miles in silence, the country road canopied in electric green. I pressed my head against the glass to watch the new maple leaves curling in the breeze. Every few turns offered a tempting glimpse of Lake Champlain’s choppy waters.

Now, I looked across the Plattsburgh train depot and swelled with indulgent love at Ev’s grumpy scowl.

each of us humans has a moment-if not many-in which we lapse. for some, the transgression involves sex. for others, simply doubt or a rage so all encompassing, it impels us to make irreversible decisions. but whatever the transgression is doesn't really matter. what matters is that lapsing is our fate. we humans are doomed to it. worse, it is our destiny to look back longingly, with nostalgia, at our world before we changed, at who we were Before. we can never forget. but we can never go back.

Is it terrible to take solace in finding oneself better off than the huddled masses?

The truth is a noble grail to seek. But if you’re after it, you must imagine, first, what it will mean to get it. The truth is neither good nor bad. It is above evil. Above morality. It doesn’t offer anything besides itself.

I hurtled myself against it before realizing I had to press down the latch.

The truth is neither good nor bad. It is above evil. Above morality. It doesn’t offer anything besides itself.

I had no idea everyone feels this way—that the most essential part of growing up is figuring out where your empty places are and learning how to fill them by, and for, yourself.

Don’t feel ashamed, girl,” she said, answering my thoughts. “The truth is a noble grail to seek. But if you’re after it, you must imagine, first, what it will mean to get it. The truth is neither good nor bad. It is above evil. Above morality. It doesn’t offer anything besides itself.” She nodded resolutely. “I’m proud I told Jackson the truth. I’m glad he died knowing who he was.

Water was a strange substance, like memory - much to push against, but nothing solid to hang on to.