Swimming in the Dark

by Tomasz Jedrowski

I don’t know whether I ever want you to read this, but I know that I need to write it. Because you’ve been on my mind for too long.

Some things cannot be erased through silence. Some people have that power over you, whether you like it or not. I begin to see that now. Some people, some events, make you lose your head. They’re like guillotines, cutting your life in two, the dead and the alive, the before and after.

Everyone – the people who’d lived here before and the people who replaced them – had been forced to leave their home. From one day to the next, the continent’s borders had shifted, redrawn like the chalk lines of the hopscotch we played on the pavement.

How does one bond with another child, as a child? Maybe it’s simply through common interests.

Did you ever have someone like that, someone that you loved in vain when you were younger? Did you ever feel something like my shame?

I don’t know how many days we stayed at the lake, because each one was like a whole world, every moment new and unrepeatable. In a way these felt like the first days of my life, as if I’d been born by that lake and its water and you. As if I’d shed a skin and left my previous life behind.

But I think it was despair that killed her. Having done only things she didn’t believe in, she must have been dead inside

And yet, it occurs to me now that we can never run with our lies indefinitely. Sooner or later we are forced to confront their darkness. We can choose the when, not the if. And the longer we wait, the more painful and uncertain it will be. Even our country is doing it now – facing its archive of lies, wading through the bog towards some new workable truth.

This is so bad

Because you were right when you said that people can’t always give us what we want from them; that you can’t ask them to love you the way you want. No one can be blamed for that. And the odds had been stacked against us from the start: we had no manual, no one to show us the way. Not one example of a happy couple made up of boys. How were we supposed to know what to do? Did we even believe that we deserved to get away with happiness?

The wind sweeps into my face and I brace against it, walking towards the grocery stores on Eagle Street. My belly rumbles.

am hungry, suddenly, as if I haven’t eaten in weeks. I want borscht and pierogi and warm poppy-seed cake, and I feel this as a vast cavernous emptiness inside me, a yearning for warmth. But it isn’t painful at all. It feels like a promise.

HUH ?!