Highway fell behind and curved ahead like it always did; like it always will. I remembered and took her hand. Her raven hair released a million shades of trapped light, and the smile she gave was all my heart could ever want. I formed a memory, one to be saved and cherished.

Sometimes I take it out when no one is around.

He said: "Drop the Class"

I said: nothing cause I'm scared

Months past but I stayed

The semester ends with a

B and an apology

#Haiku #Protest #Willpower

Where I grew up anyplace worth going took at least an hour of driving to reach. Towards the end of every year, my family would take the mecca trip to the shining city. We'd pile up my grandmother, my mother, my father, and I into the Oldsmobile and head north on the highway.

The crowds and traffic took expert navigation, and I would hold my breath in my small, five-year-old lungs as my father carefully manuvered into the parking garage beneath the plaza. As soon as the tires stopped I leapt from the car and jumped up and down in excitement, waiting for my parents and my elderly grandmother to disembark.

My grandmother led the mecca trip. I remember her setting the itinerary and carrying her heavy purse - it held both the purse strings for our excursion as well as an ancient camera, loaded and ready to shoot.

We started by heading into the elevators, which carried us up, up and away into the heart of the sprawling building of glass and steel. All above my very short head, metallic red orbs and tinsel glistened in the bright lights and displays. The mall held dozens of shops, but the one we always headed to first stood at the very end of the giant megaplex.

The Lazarus.

Usually a department store holds only merchandise and mannequins, but once upon a year the Lazarus held so much more. As we rode the escalators up through men's clothing and women's undergarments we reached the first stop - the magical Talking Tree.

As a child I held few illusions about reality, but the Talking Tree commanded respect. Carved into the wall, his eyes would blink and look side to side as his soft, puppet mouth moved in time to his speech. It was expected that every child would rush up to stick their hand in his mouth, as if to test his intentions. But the felt held no teeth, and the result was always a giggle and a rush back to the wooden simulations of stumps around him. Sometimes he read books, or sang songs. Sometimes he told bad jokes. Every time, he made the store feel like more than just a store. He made it an adventure.

Once grandmother had taken her precious photographic evidence at the Tree, we moved on towards the next stop on our journey - Old Father Christmas. Like the minotaur, they kept him in the center of a dark maze of temporary walls, winding around to keep lines of children placated with poster displays of familiar carols or stories. Music would play above our heads as we shuffled slowly along. I used to enjoy the winding journey more than the destination, which ended with the usual lap photo - yes, more photographic evidence, even with grandmother's camera - and then a candy cane of unfortunate peppermint flavor.

Having paid respects to the Tree and Saint Nick, the final stop on our tour took us to my very favorite place in the world. Sandwiched between two stores on the outskirts of the Lazarus stood a very peculiar little door - not tall enough for an adult, only for a child. A window at adult-height stood out front and my parents and grandmother would speak with the elvish lady inside it for a few moments while I prepared myself. Every year I waited for this moment. My entry back into the Secret Santa Shop.

Any spoiled child can circle every toy in ye old Toys R Us Wishbook. The Secret Santa Shop provided a different kind of joy - the joy of giving. The elvish lady met me on the other side of the doorway with a small basket, a list, and a calculator preset to the budget provided by my family at the window. Inside the Secret Santa Shop stood shelves of small, inexpensive knick knacks - mini screwdriver sets, paperweights, ornaments, inexpensive jewelry, and more.

My quest? To scourge the shelves for the perfect presents for all my family members on my list, while staying within the total amount on the calculator. My family held no less than seven people - my grandmother, great-grandmother, mother, father, aunt, uncle, and little cousin - so the task seemed Herculean to me. Yet I felt so excited. This was my chance to show my family that I, too, could play Santa. Since I knew Santa's signature matched my grandmother's meticulous handwriting, I never saw the old elf as the bringer of Christmas joy. I knew that responsibility lay on my family - and I wanted to take on my part.

After an hour of indecision, placing and replacing items in my little basket, and fiddling with numbers, I finally chose my seven gifts. Once done, my elven escort led me up to the front counter where each of my small tokens was carefully boxed and tagged for its intended receipient. The adult-sized elves then stacked up my boxes into a large but lightweight bag for me to carry back into the world outside.

My family sat on a bench, carrying wrapped packages of their own they had purchased while I shopped. The Secret Santa Shop provided both my parents and me the chance to surprise each other. Not that the surprises would last long - in my excitement, I would secretly whisper to each member of my family what I had chosen that year for the others. If they ever compared notes they never told me. At least on Christmas Day their faces would never betray them.

Burdened with bags, we trudged back down the escalator and the elevator to the car. The sun had long gone, but I couldn't tell until we exited the brightly lit mall and pulled back out into the night time sky. My little heart beat happy and excited for another year with the people I loved.

And my little secrets, all boxed safely in the trunk, would hold my joy for the next few weeks until we all came together again.

...........................................................

The Lazarus is gone now. It closed its doors fifteen years ago, absorbed by Macy's and then worn down by the new reality of online shopping, and the slow decay of traditional brick and mortar stores. Old photos of the Talking Tree, the Secret Santa Shop, and the window displays are still saved in museums and online news clippings. In fact you can read about them here: https://ohiohistoryhost.org/ohiomemory/archives/1509

But the magic I felt as a child entering that place has gone. There are no more mecca trips to the shining city. Just fond memories, and boxloads of grandmother's dutifully collected photographic evidence.

We clasp our trembling hands together under the clear, blue sky, nervous for what today brings but knowing that nothing will stop us now. The whole world stretches before us on top of that mountain. The moment we had never dared to dream of before is suddenly right there, tangible and sweet as honey.

The birds themselves seem to cease their singing. The squirrels are watching quietly, holding their breaths. Time slows as our officiant says, "Repeat after me."

"I will trust you and honor you.

I will laugh with you and cry with you.

Through the best and the worst,

Through the difficult and the easy.

Whatever may come, I will always be there.

As I have given you my hand to hold,

so I give you my life to keep."

His eyes on mine shut the whole world away while we vow to never be apart again. Nothing matters except for our permanent reunion. This mountain is ours, and our lives are one.

We kiss to the sweet chorus of the birds, now singing louder than ever, accompanied by the cheers of my best friends. One is snapping picture after picture. (Looking back, they're so sickeningly sweet that it's no wonder everyone felt uncomfortable around us before.)

Later, I will have to face my family, the people who doubted me, doubted us. I'm apprehensive of their responses, but he dulls the bitter fear with every touch. For now, I will keep kissing him under the hot Alabama sun in the view of God and everybody, not giving a damn who notices.

You asked me of the best memory I have

And I thought of all impressive and interesting times I could boast of

The time I flew in a helicopter

Or the time I got the highest grade in the entire school

But the truth is

Those are cool, great or awesome memories

My best memory is not anything like that

It is of little me playing with stuffed toy animals

On a hot and humid summer day

Oblivious of the cruel world around me

Of the stress and sorrow and hatred I would one day face

It is that what I call my best memory

What I cherish and what I long for

I never would have thought my best memory would come from a day when I awoke before daylight, but here we are.

It was about 06:00 when we set off from the school that day, a total of twenty-four students, if my memory serves. I was in a car, not with strangers, but with people I didn’t know so well. They played music that wasn’t quite my taste, and my breakfast consisted of a sandwich that had been sitting out since the night before. The two hour ride was loud, dark, and cold, but I was so excited.

Finally, we arrived in the daylight at the foot of a mountain. It was crazy how fast the German grass turned to Austrian snow when I wasn’t paying attention along the drive.

Nervous and unsure of myself, I followed my friends to the rental station, got equipped with some skis, and we were off! Up the gondola! Evergreens ever so carefully dusted and piled with snow passed below us as we continued up up up! At the top of the mountain, we ran into the others who went quickly slipping down the slopes.

I struggled putting on my skis, and after a quick lesson from a friend, I panicked and froze at the top of the slope. What was a kid from the desert thinking, trying to ski in the alps? The context of it all was rather comical. I’d only ever seen about two inches of snow until just earlier that month, and I’d never even had the guts to rollerblade down anything steeper than a driveway. What was I doing at the top of a mountain full of fresh powder?

Back to the bunny hill it was.

Patient but antsy for some real skiing, my friend suggested we find some of the others. After another interesting set of events, we found a pair of our friends - one she could go down the run with and one with the same shoe size as me interested in swapping skis for a snowboard - if only for a little while.

Back to the bunny hill once more!

I taught him what little I knew about skis, and he held my hands as I fell on my face trying to stand on the snowboard. But we both thoroughly enjoyed the switch and were even joined by his friend who had split off before. (My ski-teacher friend found someone more on her skill level and whooshed away with her.)

So, there we were, a beginner on skis, a first-timer in the snow, and a second-time snowboarder, carefully maneuvering our young-adult selves around toddlers on the practice hill. But we happily spent the afternoon gliding down that little hill atop an Austrian alp, joking and helping one another with what little we knew. At 15:00 when the “magic-carpet” (conveyor belt) stopped, we took some pictures then rode the gondola back down - joking all the while.

We arrived back at the school just minutes late to dinner - time enough to get some much needed food - then we all warmed up with a shower, went to bed after many tiring hours of wakefulness, and that was that. Our day trip to the Alps.

Many things could have ruined that day - a discouraging start on the skis, losing my voice for two hours at the top, a malfunction of the straps that wouldn’t release my feet from the board, my utter lack of layers against the cold, any number of the hard falls I took when I tried to stop, or the fact that I never built the courage to go down the actual slope.

But remembering that day, that late January Saturday, with fantastic friends and a gorgeous view... Man, I’d love to go back to the bunny hill.

((That’s an actual photo from that day))