there's a ghost in me
who wants to say 'i'm sorry'
doesn't mean i'm sorry
Ben had seen the ribbons in the mornings on the way to work, on smoke breaks he spent walking a few blocks away from the office and back again. On his way home. Early on, he'd asked what they were there for, and the answer -- that it was for remembrance, for those that had died, reminders that they haven't been forgotten -- was difficult to dismantle.
It takes him days to decide to add to the growing bloom of yellow ribbons scattered around the city. He picks a far off corner, out of the way of most of his usual haunts. He'd grabbed a marker and a few ribbons, and he'd thought he knew whose names he was going to write on them -- but when it comes down to it, and he's standing in front of the lamppost, he doesn't have it in him.
He doesn't write one for the father he never knew. For all he knows, he's still alive -- and if he'd stuck around, Ben's life would have been so different. More whole, in more ways than one. But Ben doesn't remember him, has never met him, doesn't think about him.
He doesn't write one for his mother, Alice. He doesn't remember much of her. He knows there are memories of her, locked away somewhere, but they're not his. Lately, these days, what he does remember, he doesn't want to.
He doesn't write one for his stepfather, Roland. It's part because those memories, the ones he has, are the worst of all -- and the ones he doesn't have are even more nightmarish. Someone else that's gone that he would only like to forget ever existed. And besides, lately, these days, Roland isn't gone anyway; Ben still catches his ghost from time to time, silent and watching, waiting for something. So sure, Ben remembers him -- can't forget him -- but he can't forgive, either. There aren't any well-wishes to be made for him.
The only name he prints on a ribbon and ties around the lamppost is one he hadn't even thought of writing before. Somebody long dead and gone, maybe somebody Ben's forgotten, even. Everybody has, nobody remembers, and that's sad to him, especially because it was a child, especially because it was a murder, of sorts. Beaten, abused, died of cruelty and neglect.
It's his own name, Benjamin, that he prints on the ribbon, almost without thinking, automatic, almost like it isn't his doing. It's his full name, which he doesn't go by, never uses. Maybe he used to, he's not sure. He's not sure, either, what it means really, acknowledging that he's dead, in a sense, but it doesn't feel dramatic or untrue. Maybe it's just a reminder -- not of the boy, but of the fact that he's missing more pieces than he understands.
For a moment, he watches the ends of the ribbon twist in the breeze, and then he puts up his collar against the on-again-off-again drizzle that's been falling all day and turns away.
in the first days of the springtime
made you up and split from one thousand enemies
made a trail of a thousand tears
made you a prisoner inside your own secrecy
there's a ghost in me
who wants to say 'i'm sorry'
doesn't mean i'm sorry
at the first hour of the springtime
made you up and split from one thousand enemies
now i see you from the corner
clock strikes and i know you will be drinking alone
there's a ghost in me
who wants to say 'i'm sorry'
doesn't mean i'm sorry
"ghosts," ladytron
( cross-posted from here )
who wants to say 'i'm sorry'
doesn't mean i'm sorry
Ben had seen the ribbons in the mornings on the way to work, on smoke breaks he spent walking a few blocks away from the office and back again. On his way home. Early on, he'd asked what they were there for, and the answer -- that it was for remembrance, for those that had died, reminders that they haven't been forgotten -- was difficult to dismantle.
It takes him days to decide to add to the growing bloom of yellow ribbons scattered around the city. He picks a far off corner, out of the way of most of his usual haunts. He'd grabbed a marker and a few ribbons, and he'd thought he knew whose names he was going to write on them -- but when it comes down to it, and he's standing in front of the lamppost, he doesn't have it in him.
He doesn't write one for the father he never knew. For all he knows, he's still alive -- and if he'd stuck around, Ben's life would have been so different. More whole, in more ways than one. But Ben doesn't remember him, has never met him, doesn't think about him.
He doesn't write one for his mother, Alice. He doesn't remember much of her. He knows there are memories of her, locked away somewhere, but they're not his. Lately, these days, what he does remember, he doesn't want to.
He doesn't write one for his stepfather, Roland. It's part because those memories, the ones he has, are the worst of all -- and the ones he doesn't have are even more nightmarish. Someone else that's gone that he would only like to forget ever existed. And besides, lately, these days, Roland isn't gone anyway; Ben still catches his ghost from time to time, silent and watching, waiting for something. So sure, Ben remembers him -- can't forget him -- but he can't forgive, either. There aren't any well-wishes to be made for him.
The only name he prints on a ribbon and ties around the lamppost is one he hadn't even thought of writing before. Somebody long dead and gone, maybe somebody Ben's forgotten, even. Everybody has, nobody remembers, and that's sad to him, especially because it was a child, especially because it was a murder, of sorts. Beaten, abused, died of cruelty and neglect.
It's his own name, Benjamin, that he prints on the ribbon, almost without thinking, automatic, almost like it isn't his doing. It's his full name, which he doesn't go by, never uses. Maybe he used to, he's not sure. He's not sure, either, what it means really, acknowledging that he's dead, in a sense, but it doesn't feel dramatic or untrue. Maybe it's just a reminder -- not of the boy, but of the fact that he's missing more pieces than he understands.
For a moment, he watches the ends of the ribbon twist in the breeze, and then he puts up his collar against the on-again-off-again drizzle that's been falling all day and turns away.
in the first days of the springtime
made you up and split from one thousand enemies
made a trail of a thousand tears
made you a prisoner inside your own secrecy
there's a ghost in me
who wants to say 'i'm sorry'
doesn't mean i'm sorry
at the first hour of the springtime
made you up and split from one thousand enemies
now i see you from the corner
clock strikes and i know you will be drinking alone
there's a ghost in me
who wants to say 'i'm sorry'
doesn't mean i'm sorry
"ghosts," ladytron
( cross-posted from here )