Valentine's Day

Valentine’s Day

Daniel Yetman February 14, 2011

The wind howls pass snow banks, mountains of ice and occasionally across open bodies of water. As beautiful as it is here I’m nearly positive that this is where I’m going to die. With the palm of my left glove torn open, feebly clenching a fist is all I can do to keep my hand from freezing right through. I’m not sure if it is working, I lost feeling in my fingers what feels like half an hour ago. I must admit, it may not have been that long but without a watch time doesn’t have the same type of meaning it usually does.

I’ve grown accustomed to always wearing a watch. I wouldn’t be surprised if I have worn one every day of my life since my twelfth birthday at which time my parents bought me an analog one with a Velcro strap. I remember there were aliens on the wrist and when the glow button was pressed the light was also shaped like an alien. I remember taking great comfort in that watch until I was in grade eight, then I became embarrassed of its presence and ended up smashing the face of it just so my parents would buy me a new one. I’ve always regretted that; I still on occasion think of those aliens sitting in a landfill somewhere wondering why I abandoned them. I know it sounds silly but it makes me cry sometimes thinking how callously I left them, can I be exiled as easily as them? Who is embarrassed by my presence?

Today I’m not wearing a watch at all, I probably would be though if I wasn’t stuck wearing six layers of winter clothing just to keep myself from keeling over from the sheer cold of Antarctica. The wind feels as if it’s piercing every article of clothing, around my face is the worst, where my goggles and hood don’t quite meet.

Even if I do manage to survive this voyage I’ll surely lose my left hand, I don’t dare to take off my glove to check on it but I imagine it’s a brilliant shade of violet by now. Part of me wishes I would die here today, I can’t imagine living the rest of my life with only my right hand. As if I’m not portrayed as odd enough as it is, I can imagine what people will start saying when I return with one hand and a stump. Well, I guess there first thought may be of how in the world did I get to Antarctica? That would be a superfluous question, it’s quite the story.

I take my good hand and grab a protruding icicle from the wall of ice I am attempting to climb. I miss it and slide back down to the wall’s base. Deterred I stare at the snow being thrashed around by the immaculate wind. I’m not sure how cold it is but it’s cold—cold enough to kill me. It used to be cold back home but nothing like this. All those nights I spent standing at the bus stop when it was ten below don’t seem so awful anymore, it fact I wish I was waiting for a bus right now. A bus could save my life, take me to safety and let me sleep. Oh, how much I want to sleep right now. Here, in the most austere climate on the face of the earth, sleep is rare. If I tried to sleep now I would surely never wake again. That would be it, I would never return home again—never lie in my bed, never speak to any of the people I have met and most of all never see her again.

I can’t help but think of her now, at this time of utter peril. It’s almost incomprehensible to think that I may never see her again but in all honesty I guess it’s because of her I left in the first place. I needed to get away from her and this was the farthest place I could imagine. As far as I know she doesn’t even know that I’m here, nobody does. I should have told her I was leaving maybe she would have begged me to stay. Unlikely, considering she has never shown the least bit of interest before but in my head, when I picture it, she begs me to stay.

I truly wish I told her I was leaving, if I ever do return she’ll never believe I left for Antarctica. My two regrets are not bearing my soul to her and not bringing a camera. I wonder how she would react if I came back with a hook for a hand.

Right now I wish I had a hook for a hand, it would make climbing these ice sheets significantly easier. I reach again for the same icicle as before and pull myself up with it. From there I pull myself up to the next layer and then the layer above that again. Eventually I’m met with a snowy crest that I can walk upon without fear of slipping.

I collapse in the snow completely exhausted. My entire life I have been a master at denial, living constantly in disillusion, but even I cannot see this as anything other than the end. It’s funny I never thought I would visit this continent let alone die on it. At least I’ll get a hell of a story out of it to tell in the afterlife.

I always thought when faced with my own death I would start to panic and think back to all the wasted opportunities in my life. I must admit, I can’t help think of the mistakes I’ve made and I do wish I could change them. If I changed the right ones I wouldn’t be in Antarctica right now. I wish I could tell everyone everything before I die. My three regrets are not bringing a camera, not telling her where I went and not leaving a series of confessions.

I pick myself up from the snow and brush ice away from the few pieces of exposed skin around my face. Each footstep is heavy and I’m sure each one will be my last. I can see the horizon quickly approaching and a valley down below. There are no other mountains for miles to obstruct my view of this ironic paradise. I wish I had more time to explore. I know I must be the only person to have ever ventured here. I should have this mountain named after me.

I scream at the top of my lungs and listen to the echo. I think this is the first time in my life I have been completely isolated. It’s funny how that completes the metaphor, every day when surrounded by people I feel lost and completely alone and now when I’m both lost and alone I finally feel free. I scream again this time trailing off with a laugh. It hurts to laugh, I feel like the air is freezing the moisture in my lungs.

I remember when I was seven years old having a screaming contest with my best friend at the time. He yelled as loud as he possibly could and told me to do the same. He of course won the contest. I think that may have been one of the last times I ever saw him, he moved away a couple weeks later. I still remember his name but I have never attempted to contact him, although he was instrumental in shaping the early years of my life I’m not sure if he would remember who I am. Even if I did contact him what happens then, do we suddenly become best friends again? How could we possibly pretend like our lives didn’t diverge?

This is the first time since that day I was seven that I have yelled. I feel like all the stress from my entire life is being extricated through my voice. Imagine if there was somebody here within earshot. I can only imagine what they would think if they heard somebody screaming in the middle of a wasteland.

The days have started to blend together but I’m nearly positive that today is the fourteenth of February, Valentine’s Day. I should have sent her a card in the mail before I left or stuck it in her mailbox—something, anything. I don’t think she knows how much I think of her, she may though. It hurts to think that she doesn’t feel the same but the ice clinging to my cheeks hurts even more.

It’s a pity this backdrop is going to die through my eyes; I would have loved to share it with somebody. There have been a lot of things in my life I would have liked to have shared with somebody but alas I did most of them alone. I guess if you never find the right person to share these kinds of memories with it’s better to live them alone. I can’t help but wonder what her eyes are seeing at this moment and who she is sharing them with. She could be with anyone in the world but me.

In a different world maybe we would have been right for each other, maybe if I wasn’t as awkward or my voice was a little deeper we would have lived happily ever after, the fairy tale ending that I have always wanted to obtain but have never been able to. Maybe I am just being optimistic, perhaps there are no fairy tale endings and when we reach the part of the movie when the credits are supposed to start rolling that’s where the real movie begins—that’s where jealousy, resentment and hate all start to take over until reality sets in and we find it isn’t so great living with Juliet. I guess now I’ll never know.

I can’t believe I travelled across two hemispheres and 135 degrees of latitude just to get away from her; this has not been one of my more fruitful endeavors. In all honesty there are other reasons I decided to leave, other pressures that were becoming too great to deal with. The real question I have been asking myself is did I know this was a suicide mission before it began? I haven’t been able to find an answer yet—I did plan on returning home but at the same time I’m not sure what I was meant to accomplish here.

I scream again but this time I use words instead of an animalistic grunting sound, “COME SAVE ME.”

I almost expect somebody to come running from around the hills but of course nobody does. My gaze moves to the valley below where a large black dot seems to jut out from a world that is almost completely white. It seems out of place like the snow is trying to consume it and wipe it from existence. Eventually my eyesight adjusts and I see that the black dot is not one entity but thousands that are squished together sharing body heat.

My feet slip from under me and I almost fall right off the mountain. I sprawl my upper body into the snow and I keep myself from sliding. “Crisis evaded,” I mutter under my breath.

I stand up and stare at the thousands of tuxedo wearing creatures that are bestowed before me. When I hold my breath I can hear them murmuring over the wind’s screeching. Huddled together they don’t even look cold, if anything they look bored. Most of these birds have probably never seen a human being before. I don’t know if they can see me from where I am standing but I like to think that they can.

I can’t help but laugh—now I know that I am meant to die right here. As much as I would love to snap a picture and send it around the world this backdrop was meant for me alone. I sit on the far edge of the mountain staring down at the hundreds or thousands of Empire penguins. My feet dangle off the ice with a three hundred foot drop off below them.

I remove both of my gloves to compare the color of my left hand compared to the right. It’s so blue it almost looks black. I would definitely have to get it removed but I guess it doesn’t matter now. I remove my jacket as well as the next two layers. It doesn’t feel cold out but I know that I must be in shock.

I can’t help but think of home one last time, all the things I’m leaving behind. It’s funny, most of the time I spent living there I resented it—I hated the same streets, the same stores, the same weather and most of all the same faces. Now those streets feel comforting, those faces make me feel like part of a community. I wish I could say goodbye, not to everyone but just a handful of close acquaintances—five maybe.

I’m probably already presumed dead, assuming today is the day I think it is I have been gone for over two weeks. I wonder if anyone hosted a funeral. I hope it was a nice service with all my friends there. I hope she attended, she always look pretty in black. I wonder if she cried, I know she probably didn’t, she never cared for me all that much but when I imagine it in my head she’s crying, her mascara runs and she’s deeply upset.

I unlace my boots and take my socks off. I imagine that I’m on a beach and the sun is beating down on me. I’m nearly positive that it’s Valentine’s Day, it has to be. I really should have sent her a card, a letter—anything. With that final thought I close my eyes and become part of the landscape that has lived solemnly for its entire life.

DannYetman

http://yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com/