I Remember You

• Kauri Palmer, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2020

A man is standing in silence.

His features are almost familiar. Nothing special, scraggly red hair, watery blue eyes and a stoop in his posture.
The most unusual thing about him is his stance. Unconditionally indifferent to his surroundings, arms weighted by his side, feet perfectly in line, and eyes sucked forwards. But every jolted angle in his body is alive with concentration. A closed circuit of deafening electricity, without a bulb to prove its existence.

His unwavering gaze is focused onto the small painting in front of him. A black hole has opened its maw opposite his gaunt face and frozen his interest. Nothing can sway him from the canvas. Not the sparkling white of the corridors, nor the hundreds of other paintings dripping history and reverence. To him, the humming, bustling conundrum of the crowds is nothing. His stillness creates the impression of a time-lapse taken on a street, the vast buildings the only constant as thousands of cars leave their ghosts behind.

Then, like an ancient glacier finally cracking, he raises a single trembling hand that remembers every brushstroke it ever made. The unusual action itself is enough to draw the awkward attention of a few onlookers, suddenly noticing his once invisible presence.

With steady purpose, he leans forward. The viewers stare, horrified, as he trips the alarm sensor and keeps going, a rolling boulder that can never be stopped. There’s a commotion now, as people struggle to overcome their shock. He can’t hear any of it. Can’t feel anything. Can’t see anything past the tears in his eyes and the painting he brushes with his fingers.

“I remember you,” he whispers to the sunflowers.