“A Home Place is a shadow of different shades” by Ethan Malaver

Image from Pixabay

A Home Place is a shadow of different shades

My great aunt died yesterday.

My uncle Moises was by her side in Lima

She was 95. We never talked that much.

It’s been 5 years since I last went to Peru.

I wanted to go to the ARB again. I live in the Alice Lloyd building, so it’s comforting to

know that I have such exposure to nature right besides me. I can go for a five minute walk, and

I’ll be in the middle of a snow globe, but without the snow, yet. I left my dorm with three layers

of clothes and so I did the five minute walk. However, feeling warm in the cold weather I wasn’t

used to, just made me more sleepy. I thought about finding some water trail to see if the water

was just as cold as the morning air.

She was my grandmother’s sister,

and the last grandparent of our entire family.

I tried to follow the path we walked during our first visit for class. That time I saw some

tables on the shore of a small river that I wished we would have stopped by, but we took another

direction. So I decided to come back.

We never went back

but I couldn’t tell you how precious it felt

when I put my feet on the freezing water of my parents terrain

back in a peruvian town that didn’t have a name

In the distance, I was looking for those giant stairs that you jump to be able to go up. But

the trees just went up and up. So I looked up, and the clouds were green. What’s light if not a

brush?

Tourists don’t get to Celendin.

This ghost town’s lookout, is mine

Because it was from up there

That I made you smile,

For the first time.

DANGER!

Down an old destroyed path where green met black, I saw a shimmering yellow warning

sign. It was a Barricade Ribbon. I think it wasn’t allowed to go there. So I walked there, to a

chair that seemed not only older than me but also stronger. At first, I didn’t wanna sit on it, but

when I did, I almost fell asleep.

With my eyes closed, I could read different sounds, from animals to the environment's

noises, running from ear to ear like news of a notice of a starry night. The squirrels, the wind

caressing the leaves, my steps crushing dead sticks or the rest of dead trees and leaves, it all

seemed to me like track files of a song I can’t figure out how to properly accommodate, to finish

a project. I could turn tracks off, to hear others better, and then decide which of them turn back

on again. It felt like that process of producing music. For moments, I could hear the squirrels

squeal, and take over the sounds beneath my feet. Other times, the wind was so strong that my

mind could only process its movement. But, will I ever get to hear everything blended? What am

I supposed to do?

When we look back,

What comes first?

Our pain

Or our embrace?

There was a tree in front of me. A small one. I tried to guess its age, because to me it

seemed like it was just growing up...but it was surrounded by broken sticks, and old leaves. It

wasn’t dead, yet. The tree had just a single leaf, and it reassembled the shape of a bat clinging

upside down. Its petiole looked like it was about to fall...like in a couple of seconds, it would

join its companions. But no, it stood up still...while other leaves kept falling to the ground.

Mom wants us to go to Peru for Winter

But I don’t want to.

I still couldn’t organize everything I was hearing or seeing. So I stood up, and walked

towards the warning sign. I came wanting to see water, and ended up surrounded by sick trees.

It's strange, because they don’t look like it. It feels like they can reach the sky. Maybe I am too

small. My eyes felt the trunk, it was a wrist. But against the small rays of blue running away

through the top of these trees, a wrist is a painting.

I left quietly that summer

The most important things

Always leave when you talk

I shouldn’t touch them. I wanna touch them. With touching something, someone,

everything could make sense again, or your perception of time will never be the same again. So

could I die if I touch it? I wanna hear clearly all the voices of the Arb, of my memory. I didn’t

read enough of the warning...I have things to —

IT'S GOING TO RAIN?

I thought it was about to

rain.

but more leaves fell.

So many shades of green.

I think I love the wind.

Cause the wind was like the kiss

We couldn’t give

In that truck, with our arms touching the time

up in the mountains

Of a story I still can’t write

I thought about my mom. She has never seen that tree. Peru doesn’t have trees that tall

and powerful. However, that color green, so prevalent, I haven’t seen it...but I’ve felt it. My

eleventh grade creative writing teacher said that I’m a lover when I write, but again I prefer that

dead collection of leaves on top of that powerful sick tree. Why when I’m surrounded by a

combination of colors that don't have a name yet, I still focus on the brownish gray where there’s

no life? I love that green, but I crave that brown. Once again, how do I organize these thoughts?

I believe that when the earth dies. Everything starts over. The world repeats itself, from

the start. The Arb would be built again and again, and this tree would get sick infinite times for

eternity. This helps but also dooms me, and that’s the Arb for me. It makes me feel like I belong.

Like my history from Peru could be translated into the falling leaves, but this is not home, I’m

making it home...again.

But I like repetition. That’s a lie, I don’t like repetition. I like loops.

I’m not ready

I can’t go back

I still need to write

Something to destroy

The door

That a “no”

Couldn’t close

I wished for a leaf to fall in my head, I wanted the tree’s embrace. I knew I couldn’t go

look for it, so I just waited. But another leaf fell, and this time a yellow one.A squirrel passed by

running, and climbed around the Bat leaf. My eyes opened, I believed it was going to fall. But

the leaf...didn’t change. I wanna be a squirrel.

The name of my great aunt was Teresa

Will time ever be by my side?

If a forest is sick...is it better to cut the trees

or to help them heal?

There was a tree that looked weird, some plants were coming out of it, in parallel lines.

Like wrist scars.

IS THAT AN AIRPLANE?

It wasn’t. I don't like airplanes. I couldn’t believe it was the wind.

A past breathing doesn’t exist

A future breathing doesn’t exist

Breathe

The trees from the Arb breathed by moving from side to side. Do they ever stop? Do they

die? I don’t know if it was because I was tired, but the plants were glowing in a static pattern. It

wasn’t scary, but I closed my eyes. It was bright, and it made my head pound.

I brought my home here,

to build

because it's my turn

Birds started chirping in waves, around and around. They are a contradiction to my

memory. The high key intermittent notes make me remember a scenery of me running around an

endless field, thinking that a piece of an abandoned house on a place that doesn’t appear on

Peru’s map, it's a universe. I heard the same birds on the Arb, for a lot of minutes, but I can’t

trust my senses. I don’t want to waste today’s energy in picturing all my happy memories. I’ll let

the birds do it this time.

I’m more than the victim of my past

And to sleep

I have to turn off the light

I didn’t want to think anymore. I heard my breathing, joining the different rhythms the

Arb had to bring me.. I thought about my brother’s typical reaction to listening to my songs’

demos: “This is too much”. I always give him the same answer: “I know”.

I’ll make you run

As everyone walks

Before I knew it, a dog was staring at me. A big hairy and smiley dog was panting in

front of me. I wondered how I heard everything, except this dog that was almost as big as me.

Her owner came talking to her in Spanish.

“¡Oye! ¡Ven aca! ¡Dejala sola!”

I laughed.

“She thinks you are a statue,” she said laughing.

“No way”, I answered, joining her joy.

We laughed about what happened for a couple of seconds.

“Have a great day!” she said, walking away.

“Tu tambien” I answered, she left with such a smile.

I stood up, walked to the bat leaf, and made it fall.

My great aunt died yesterday

I won’t let my history repeat again

It’s my turn,

I am real.

to be the tree

with leaves

that will paint new shades

I swear.

Ethan Malaver is a Film and Spanish student who is very enthusiastic about reading, writing, and living. He is particularly interested in questioning the boundaries of reality and the film medium. When he refers to 'living,' he is not just talking about daily life experiences but also the abstractions within it, which Ethan aims to capture through his writing. As a Latino individual, his studies are also focused on queer and Peruvian culture as part of his effort to rewrite history.

This piece started as a project for a class of Dr. Lauren Gwin prompted me to not think but be present in a place around campus. The Nichols Arboretum was a place my brain connected with instantly. The present, to me, is very messy and loud, which is what I try to accomplish through this piece.