Us

Do you remember me?

When you first found me, I was curled into myself at the bottom of a box. No inhale or exhale. No oxygen at all.

Just a dead little thing.

The whole time I was waiting to be pinched up by you.

No one could have told me that though. I just knew. My life wasn't meant to be lived at the bottom of some box. Not for eternity, at least. Not like that.

It was so dark there.

Even though I wasn't meant to feel the cold, I did. It was the kind of cold that haunts you; the type of cold that has no regard for physics. It always finds you, anyway.

Well, until you found me.

For a little while, at least.

Back when you were still you, and I was still me.

Before there was ever an "us" to begin with.

For a while, I stayed there, at the bottom of that box. I watched as you picked everyone else but me. Weeks went by and I studied how your hands changed. At first, whenever your fingers came near, I could feel their glowing warmth, even from a distance. Sometimes the fatty pads of your fingertips would whisper over me before they landed on someone else. Over time, though, it became harder to feel your warmth. Even as you got closer.

Warmth there still was, though.

And so I waited for you.

Until finally, you chose me.

(I must remember that after all, it was me you chose at the end.)

You did not radiate the same heat you once did. The fatty pads of your fingertips had become slick and hardened. Only a breath of glow left.

Still, you handled me with care. You wrapped me with the others in a thin blanket, rolled tightly so we wouldn't spill out. When you were done, I felt your fingers gently press against the sheet. A caress before the kiss.

When you put me up against your lips, I almost fainted then.

You offered more warmth after that. A whole flame to keep me company, even after yours went out.

I don't feel you with me, anymore.

But I know we are still an us.

There is no inhale or exhale. No oxygen at all.

Still, I burn.

Skull of a Skeleton with Burning Cigarette by Vincent van Gogh is oil on canvas, estimated to have been painted between 1885-1886 while van Gogh was staying in Antwerp, Belgium. Painted when van Gogh was in poor health, this painting is said to be a memento mori.

"Remember that you have to die."

Van Gogh smoked until his death in 1890.

All of this had me thinking about what it might mean to be the cigarette between the skeleton's mouth. What would it have been like to be the tobacco leaves of van Gogh's final smoke? To be pre-memorialized in oil...

Or to be a painting barely seen until after its artist is gone.

Although van Gogh sold only few paintings during his lifetime, his legacy has reached far beyond that.

In 2020, I had the opportunity to visit the Vincent van Gogh immersive exhibit in Toronto.

Walking through the van Gogh exhibit, surrounded by his creations, I was overcome with awe.

Van Gogh is thought to have had bipolar disorder (among other illnesses.)

I have bipolar 1; until then, never had I seen a reflection of my mental illness and thought, my God, what a beautiful thing.

Not only that but to be in a room surrounded by people who saw these reflections and felt the beauty in them too.

Skull of a Skeleton with Burning Cigarette was the piece that stood out to me the most. It reflected the exhaustion, defeat, and ultimately hope I felt at the time.

Something dead (the skull of a skeleton) mixed with something alive (the fire of a burning cigarette.)

The codependency between death and life, explored.