By Adrian Arana

Content Warning: Parent Death

A sweet flavor in your mouth, an expressive emotion engulfing your face; a red raspberry, picked straight from a bush near your bus stop. It wasn’t your own, but you and your mother would always gather from it every afternoon on weekdays. She did so because you wanted it—you wanted to have extensive access to every fruit in the world. You always broke down hysterically when your father would cut down the invasive blackberry bushes. You always wanted a big garden of your own, bursting with beautifully curated life and overflowing with thriving fruits. You were the pickiest eater, refusing to put any vegetables down your throat, but fruits would never fail to pique your interest.

In front of you: a world of magnificent wonders, glittering with a vibrant landscape made even prettier during the afternoons on rainy Thursdays—a very specific type of day you found your personal favorite. There was something so inexplicably euphoric knowing you would come home three hours early from school to your mother happily waiting to pick you up from your bus stop. Hand in hand, the two of you would share a bright smile as you walked home, only to fall asleep with the television in the background. Nobody dared to turn it off; nobody wanted to disturb your rest.

Strangely, it starts to get colder by the minute. Lit candles resting on birthday cakes rush to you at lightspeed, yet you don’t feel yourself getting older, and time feels a little slower. The world is your oyster, but you want to firmly stay in the position you pray you’re forever going to be stuck in. A curious child looking past your limited exploration, sticking close to your siblings and never letting go of that tight grasp: that’s who you want to be. Forever and ever and ever.

It’s your eleventh year being alive. Now you’re at the top of the world, aren’t you? Peers of younger ages have never looked so small. Teachers look considerably older, but they’re still no different to you than they were when you were under their care. Mistakenly calling them mom and dad was a common error, but you felt too old to make a mistake like that nowadays. You felt too old to run around on the playground, but not too old to walk home with your mother every day. A little boy still runs laps around your heart, even if nobody seems to see it.

A year later and, suddenly, the world closes in on you. Raspberries taste sour, everyday meals feel inedible, your siblings have embarked on their own journeys, and nobody has the time to pick you up from your stop anymore. Exotic-looking plants now look dead and muted in color, the sky—even on rainy Thursdays—never excite you anymore, and that little boy keeping your pure heart afloat is beginning to run out of breath. You’re trying to hold on to a small, shaky hand that feels all too lost, crumbling away as you try gripping even tighter. It hurts, the boy whines hysterically. It’ll be okay, you reply in a voice almost concerningly unsure.

The feeling of losing your parents while in the middle of a grocery store aisle, the feeling of crying when things in the library don’t go your way, the feeling when almost everyone gets a piece of candy but you; everything comes back to you like muscle memory, yet you fail to keep every little moment within your reach. You’re begging desperately for someone to hug you as tears stream down from your eyes, and your pained voice wails in agony, but nobody seems to answer. A short silhouette wearing shades of red runs off into an indistinguishable void.

You feel drained of your own existence. Your whole life as you know it squeezed out of your body like the rag they used to bathe you with. Tears splashing onto the fading floor beneath your feet in the way raindrops would collide with the hood of your worn-out raincoat. A smile running away and out to the wood chips, where youth remains existent and all worries fade out. That’s all you want to do right now, but you simply can’t. You wish you could, though.

It’s okay, my love, a heartful voice speaks from behind you. You turn around, and the aroma of freshly wet plants soak into your nostrils. Do you want to go pick raspberries? Your mother stands still with a woven basket in her right hand, using her other to reach out for yours.

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Adrian Arana is a 12-year-old living in the Pacific Northwest under a Filipino roof. He’s one of the biggest fans of cinema you’ll find, with a primary focus on the horror and arthouse genres. Storytelling always piques his interest. His Instagram is @adr1s4nn where he’ll share updates on narrative works.