Black Pearl, White Milk

His curious Great White slate-blue pupils blinked back at me as I stood there with the tomato in my palms. His mother yapped away with her sister on the phone while he bounced at a constant in the sea blue rocker. My mom had trusted that I could run the beautifully plump heirloom tomato over to their house, as a little treat for the new baby coming home. I didn’t run there, moreover; I skipped there with a gleaming twinkle of pride behind my eleven year old smirk. I felt intimidated by him blinking at me, like I was a fish at the aquarium, constantly swimming in circles, back and forth, trying to locate the unfamiliar. He was unfamiliar because he was newborn life, and I felt honored to be in his presence. I had delivered the tomato, and she had thanked me with a proud motherly smile. I could make it back home safely now, and I declared it a mission accomplished.

At nine years old, I had traveled to and from Italy on a cruise all throughout the Amalfi coast, flown alone on a plane, once back in the US, and been the younger sister who learned everything too early. My sister had to experience it all first and I got to watch. I was a professional at watching. Those slate-eyes taught me that, sit back, stay quiet, listen to your soul. At fifteen years old, I had a best friend who I considered my sidekick for life, you know, as we all do freshman year of high school. Her dad was the sweetest little business man, straight out of Boston Massachusetts, who would always forget that I was equivalent to a child in their house of true teenagers. One night we had all taken our seats for a take-out family dinner, when he leaned to the side and said to me,”you know Ave, you’re quite the old soul”. In that moment I did what I knew how to do best and listened. I watched and learned quietly, and because of it I am proud to declare myself just that: an old soul.

As we read about in the book The Things They Carried, by Tim O’Brien, in ‘Nam, the soldiers carry their individual necessities as well as intangible weights in the war. When I reflect on my life so far, and the intangible things I carry, I can filter through all of my ideas except for my responsibility to maintain my old soul. In the previous year, my lacrosse coach, and an honest dear friend, informed me that she sometimes had trouble reminding herself that my true sophomore self was in fact not a senior player on her team. She had always had in her mind that I could be better and perform at a higher level because she saw that quality in me. I wanted to be something more than what I was, for the people around me and to grow as a strong independent individual. However, that responsibility is not in fact weightless. It’s heavy on my shoulders, and my back aches at night. When I can’t sleep, I think of all the places I’ve been, those who I have met and who have taught me in both negative and positive ways. I think about my family and how there is simply nothing stronger than the bond we share. I think about my sister, and how she taught me to be one step bigger, one leap farther, one lunge deeper, one thrust higher than I already am because I am capable; because I have a world of people who will pick me up when I don’t quite reach the next rung. I lay awake because I cannot calm the voices, they are already one step ahead, gears engaged, cranking, planning to be one step just a little too early. I don’t know how to escape it, the feeling of being one moment too early and a second too late all at once. Born in the wrong time, a black pearl tossed into white waters. Thick like milk it weighs down on my soul. My old soul, tender to the touch, but pristine and stirring within.