The Warren Invite: when you forget your camera battery

Taken at the Warren Invite in 2008.

Moments can be captured, but as closed doors open new ones, this memory is different. Not frozen like a still shot, the Warren Invite replays in my mind, warm by the after-effect of sweaty post-race hugs.

SEPT 19 09-- Rumbling down the road, our bus makes its way from Skokie to Gurnee. Today's the race we've all been waiting for: The Warren Invite.

Distance: 3 miles for all levels--frosh/soph, varsity, & junior varsity.

Features: Run time along a path in a beautiful cool forest preserve, concessions, clean bathrooms, & oh, almost forgot to mention, a big hill.

Wiping the slight drool from the side of my mouth, I lift my head from Diana's shoulder. Back straight against the seat, her eyes are closed. "Hey Diana, you can lean on my shoulder too." Readjusting her position, soon Diana's head and mine lightly bump each other left to right with hers sandwiched between my shoulder and head. The bus pulls into Warren High School's parking lot and already a wave of buses are there. I nudge Paula awake by tapping her head in the seat front of us.

Making camp on a grassy spot speckled with morning dew, the team lays out a blue tarp. "Laaadies, we're enforcing the NO-SHOES-ON-TARP rule. So leave your bags here, but take your shoes OFF!" demands the captains. All the girls plop their belongings in the center and gingerly slip out of their grass-stained shoes.

"FRESHMAN & SOPHOMORE GIRLSS, get ready to warm up!" Diana and Paula stand. Although I wouldn't be able to run with them, for once, I'd have the chance to capture the two running.

Excited by all the photo opportunities, I cautiously remove my camera from my bag, remove the cap, turn the switch on, and view Diana planting herself in a shot of perfection without even realizing it. I click the little black button... no response. The fantastic feel of the shot and accompanying shutter sound are amiss.

Frantic, I glare at the 3 inch monitor in hope of seeing a screen of gray filled with numbers and letters of photographic information-- but no, a blank black rectangle stares back and laughs at me. A dark revelation hits. I swiftly flip over the camera body and open the battery hatch: Empty, like my hopes of taking hundreds of pictures of my teammates running.

Disenchanted, I change my plans and head toward the starting line with a different light bulb floating over my head.

BANG! The race begins. The first loop's a breezy mile, but the second and third miles are a bit trickier. Positioning myself along the base of the hill, I keep an eye out for Diana or Paula. Girls of all different colored uniforms spurt forward from the forest path. Wearing black and white with a spot of red, Diana emerges.

"Go Diana!" She approaches the hill. A couple weeks ago, we ran at a meet loaded with some of the most vicious hills. Unprepared at the time, we vowed to overcome the next time. Diana meets the hill. "Just like practice! RUNNN!" As the race progresses, phrases spew out of my mouth anxious to see action. "STAAY STRONGG!" "You CAN DO THIS!" "Stick TOGETHER!" "NICE JOB!!" I had become one of those loud obnoxious coaches.

After running two and a half miles, Paula has one more hill climb to go. She walks. You simply cannot walk in a race. I scream. She turns. Paula, run! I scream, again. Finally, Paula runs and conquers the hill. I think for her: Veni, vidi, vici.

Girls begin to finish. Quickly, I scurry to the finish line. If I don't see Diana run in, at least I'll catch her when she's finish. Approaching the lane where runners make their last strides, by some imaginable coincidence, I see Diana running her last 300 meters.

"DIIANNAA, DIIIIAAANNNAAAAA, RUNNN!" I sound like a fire ambulance, but by the last stream of Diana’s, my voice resembles an old lady screaming for her life as if she were mauled by a wild cougar. But, I'm not an old lady screaming for her life or even a desperate photographer leaning in for the ideal shot. I'm a cross country runner. A cross country runner screaming and cheering until her voice runs dry for her teammates’ races. It doesn’t matter if I’m armed with a camera or not. Diana and Paula finish and our trio collapses into a sweaty post-race hug.

opening the door

Opening the Door

Story of reminiscence between a boy and his struggle to accept his friend’s health condition

For hours, nature continued with her dance. The seventh brick house on the old avenue was empty with the exception of my presence. The rain came down and intensified with the thunderous beating of the Lord’s drum. Palms against the walls of the butterscotch painted hallways; I closed my eyes tolerating each ripple felt through the plaster. I would show no fear. Yet with each stroke of the heavy weight, my heart felt distilled and jumped two beats. I wandered through the house and with each step, I heard the wooden planks creak at my every movement. Remnants of the light from God’s own show, flashed across my face as I shuffled on forward. Passing each room, I peered in and each was beautifully painted with pastels and lightly glazed. Then, I held my breath as I crept past her door and wondered what it’d be like, if I could breathe no more. Pausing, I paced back and slipped through into her haven.

The lavender interior blew me away with her satin spread sheets folded gently across her soft down bed. It was like, nothing had ever changed.

My brave girl through all the pain, how could you do it?

How could you not ever fear?

You may not be here, but my admiration for you will never disappear. From there, I let my mind wander from the present of eternal rain to the past, where my brave girl existed.

I first met Aella, three years ago during a rather oddly cool summer. I remember clearly her bright green eyes that shined like emeralds captivating your line of sight within moments. I know, three years doesn’t seem like very long time, but it’s incredible on how once you’ve become involve with someone you love, it’s impossible to escape or leave them.

At the time, I was a pretty bland kid. My head of straight dark brown hair begged for a cut, but I resisted its pleas as I simply loved the amusement of flipping it back, feeling the texture of the strands in between my fingers as I moved it from my face. I did this routine whenever I had a chance. One day at the park, she caught me doing this obsessive ritual. From the swings, Aella jumped with a spring with no hesitation and approached me. She dove in near my face gave me a prying odd look like that of a child filled with curiosity. I slowly looked up and the color of my cheeks drained from utter embarrassment. Yet still, her expression did not change. Her smile soon became contagious. In return, I gave a wry smile and turned away. When I got home, all I could think about was the strange girl’s magnetic gaze.

Each day, I returned to the park and saw her cheerfully swinging on the same rusty chained swing with her radiant brunette curls bouncing about. It seemed like Time didn’t care for her. It was as if he missed her and stalked others as she continued her activities with youthful joy.

Eventually, I did get to know Aella the first summer. She was my irreplaceable gift. Her enthusiastic cheer and encouragement keep our morality up even when the summer came to a closure. We vowed to keep in touch as any other pair of friends should during the year.

Each week, I received long handwritten letters printed on rather festive lavender stationary and in return, I replied with much anticipation for another letter. By then, autumn had past and an early winter began to surface. With the coming of barren fields, Aella’s letters transformed from those worthy of novels to simple notes made without heart that came fewer than once a month. Still, despite these signs, I waited for another. When it came to a point that Aella’s letters had stopped altogether, I became concerned slumping into a deep depression yearning for summer to wake from the frozen cold.

Fortunately, Aella appeared that summer. Except as I reached out to greet her, she was not the same. Her innocence and genuine joy seemed degraded and Aella’s youth seemed to not mature but grow old. That evening, the stars twinkled brilliantly. My eyes began to water hearing her speak of her year as they reminded me of her emerald eyes. Then, she began to mumble and eventually fell silent. I held my head up and made eye contact and she resumed with more volume.

“I’m sorry, that I hadn’t been writing,” Aella swallowed and forced a smile to continue. “As the Lord has it, I’m dying.”

I thought she was kidding. I honestly did, but then I realized that I wasn’t thinking about it. I knew she was telling the truth. I only wanted to believe otherwise and live in denial.

“Say something,” Aella pleaded with concern. Honestly, I couldn’t.

How could she be this strong?

I instead pierced my lips and hugged her firmly, never wanting to let go. Then, I did.

From then on, Aella never really did discuss her condition after her confession and we carried on living with no boundaries. At sunset, I gathered up the courage to ask.

“Are you afraid Aella?”

“Of what?” she replied with a smile.

“You know… dying?” I whispered. “Fearing death as it comes closer?” I waited for a reply and to my astonishment, Aella chuckled and shook her head.

“I must be weird,” Aella twisted a shiny brown curl from her hair as she spoke, “but no, I’m not. At first, I knew for certain that I felt Fear in my presence, but odd enough Fear never latches onto me like Death can.” I shed a tear and nodded as the second summer faded away. From the corner of my eye, I sensed Aella starting to fade just as fast, but it was only my harsh imagination.

By the third and final year, we no longer met at the park, but instead at the same spot I stood now; her lavender coated room. Each morning, I would walk down the old avenue to greet her. Often, I sat beside her bed as we talked about life. I wish some days that I could be stronger and have acceptance for her fate like she did, but I couldn’t and felt ashamed for that.

As her days became numbered I watched painfully as her radiant brunette locks that I had once admired grew dull and disappeared. Sometimes, it felt like I could feel her pain as she could mine. To heal our emotional wounds, Aella would write poetry serenading the wonders of life.

One day, Aella handed me a poem to read. I gazed at it long as it was not like any of her previous ones.

Life shouldn’t be wasted.

But it shall be spared.

Life is fragile

yet bond with great care.

When Death approaches

He craves the fear

Seeks for sadness

And your desperate, needy despair

Life with grace

Crosses Death’s Race

Mingles with His

Many sadistic mind games

Then She collapses

Under no ones control

She took the risks

Fire with fire

And now

Life is Your Only Desire

Strolling on Death Row

Sit, you weep.

Lord hath no mercy?

Each tear come down

Sun rises at dawn

Death flees

Life’s beauty seeps

Into your untainted and pure skin

Unfortunately

Death is found still,

Knocking on Her Door

And won’t flee no more.

“Will you do me a favor?” Aella whispered. Her words were soft.

“Anything,” I responded.

“When Death is there,” she pointed to her mahogany wooden door frame, “please let him in.” I didn’t respond. Aella held my hand and sighed, before she was thrown into a merciless coughing fit. Swiftly, I grabbed a glass of water and patted her frail back lightly. Not wanting to count anymore days, I finally understood Aella’s wish.

During the last night, I embraced Aella with full arms and listened closely to her instruction.

“Tonight’s the night.” I drew my eyes onto her face and saw her childish gleam with her brilliant emerald eyes sparkling like just as they were when I first met her. With that, I laid Aella comfortably there within her satin lavender sheets and stepped three paces to the door and let him in.

By now, the rain had settled to only a shower. Mother Nature’s movement had ended, but my tears still danced, longing for a finale. Reaching into my coat pocket, I grasped Aella’s poem that had absorbed my sorrow and laid it upon her bed. With that, I left my brave girl’s haven, leaving the mahogany door open. ♫

-(11/10/08)

-lilxerica