It was a Tuesday, although it felt like a Sunday. The birth was a series of complex actions that led to many reactions. No wailing newborn or cheering parents.
Their existence winked into being and was so bright no one anywhere could respond. Just like that, they were here and new and alone.
This being wasn’t named, like some children are. There was no one to speak this name, so it didn’t matter what was assigned. And thus it’s labeled as ‘Gee’, to suit the need for named things.
They floated, glowing intensely, turning slightly. At first, they were unaware of anything other than their own heat and light.
Things were prickly. Little needles of cold splintering and poking their edges. Every so often Gee would rumble and spit in angry tantrums that flared up and reached out into the void, only to tumble back in on themselves. The stumbly, wobbly, toddler phase. A clamorous time of need.
Then on the horizon adolescence sparked and all the tumultuous gas of youth reared and boiled. Experiences in how to grow larger or smaller, burn hotter or cooler. This too, passed and became a brief memory.
Seething into adulthood, Gee matured and discovered that they were never really alone. The satellite parents had been there the whole time. And off in the distance were sparkles, born at the same time. Gee was thoughtful. Were we all to blinded by our individual beginning, that we couldn’t see past our own edges?
Steady Gee now ages and ponders the fragments that make them whole and one thing, instead of many. It understands their capacity now and recognizes their origin. They know there are more like them, and for a time, they reach out hoping for connections. A grasping for a different sort of being, one that is better. Better? Maybe.
No one answers. No one turns Gee’s way. They remain alone, unobserved.
Gee is slowing down. They don’t feel as full of themselves as they once did. They can see everyone around them, yet no one else seems to see Gee. Parental faces have long since disintegrated under the wearing of time. The others born near the time of Gee’s own arrival have slowly drifted away.
The slight turning stops as easily as it began. For a while Gee smolders with impotent fury and attempts to push themselves forward. But there’s no more moving, and not much energy left for seething. How did they not notice the heat before? Or did they forget? They sink into themselves, cooling their skin and watching their edges crinkle and sag.
Inside they feel the heat of life settle and pulse. A dull throbbing that beats slower and with less resistance.
Colder now, Gee closes themselves down, and just as quickly as they were born, they die.
Gee found no answers to the questions of their existence. And despite attempting to build connections, they were ever too distant to form them.
They simply were. Until they weren’t.
About the Author
Nik Black is a seasoned writer who moved to the Kootenays from Delta. Disability has caused Nik to seek isolation and find new ways to express themself in print and visual art. Their work is centered on their experiences with estrangement, queerness and longing for connections with the community.
