Hawaii

It’s only a faint whisper of a breeze, sneaking its way in through the slightly ajar window, but it’s enough to start pulling loose the edges of a worn out old poster. Somehow, the distressed age and nature of the poster, the slightly washed-off color, make the stereotypical Hawaiian scenery even more beautiful. Just as the poster is about to come loose, a young boy runs into the room and shuts the window. He reattaches the poster with great care and looks at it for a good while before slumping down into his bed.
His mother peeks her head into the room for only a second; and then she’s gone. Just a quick request to not close the window. His room could do with some fresh air, she announces. And she’s right, the room is just as smelly as it is messy, as it should be. Quite average for a boy of 14 or 15, a perfectly normal mess.
It’s far too early, and he has a really hard time opening his eyes. His mother barges in to announce their hurry, once again. It’s almost time to leave. They’re going to Hawaii. A family vacation, to celebrate his father’s birthday. The whole family already got matching Hawaiian shirts. Cerulean blue waters, clear blue skies, lush palm trees and colorful hibiscus flowers, even a rainbow in the horizon. Hawaii will pale in comparison to these shirts.
Sunburnt skin sounds different. He gently touches the blushing skin on his arm with the tips of his fingers and listens to the memories of their time in Hawaii. His fingers linger, trying to find something that isn’t there. While some memories fade, like posters on a sunny wall, some take on a life of their own and become something that never was. The boy stands up and looks at himself in the mirror, as if a stranger were staring back at him.
Late at night. The room is empty, everything obscured by shadows. The leaves on the trees outside the window are beginning to change color and fall. The world seems rich with countless shades of red and orange. Nature has a way of making death look so beautiful. The muffled echoes of a stilted conversation carry themselves into the room, but it’s like a conversation you remember having in a dream. Some of the details are clear, but their true meaning is entirely incomprehensible. The door opens and slams shut. The mother stands in the middle of the room. She screams, then cries because she doesn’t know what else to do. She gathers whatever is left of herself and walks out of the room. The door slowly sneaks to a close behind her.
The door remains shut for a long time. Just outside the window, seasons change, winter to spring, but the door remains shut. Summer blooms and withers again, and the autumn leaves fall. Dust gathers on the desk, the piles of books nobody will ever read, covering the world in a thin veil of gray. Another winter is almost here when the door finally opens again. The mother is careful to enter, calculating each step with great composure. She sees the dust, but she doesn’t care. She takes in every little detail with time, sits on the edge of the unmade bed and tries to smile. She grabs a pillow and holds it tight against her chest. She doesn’t want them to, but the tears come.
It doesn’t take long until she’s visiting the room more and more. She begins spending her nights in the room, and for the first time in a very long time, she finds a good and steady sleep. The next morning, the father opens the door and peaks in, looking at her still asleep, but only for a moment. He never steps foot in the room.
After he’s gone, she spends most of her time in the room. On quiet nights, she sometimes thinks she can hear those Hawaiian waves again. Not happy or sad, the waves are just there, one after the last, forever. But as her mind darkens, it reminds her that forever is a concept that doesn’t truly exist. With infinite time, nothing lasts forever, not even time.
Her last visit into the room is brief, methodical. She swiftly packs everything into boxes and steps out without looking back. The poster is still on the wall. The father joins her downstairs and helps her carry the boxes into a van. So many things they try not to say. So many things they’ve already said. And none of it matters anymore. They talk some more about the weather, because the silence is too heavy for either to carry.
The room belongs to someone else now. New furniture soon fills the space, new memories start taking shape. The poster is gone, but on sunny days, when the light hits the wall from a certain angle, the outlines of the poster are still visible on the wall. Only slightly, like a whisper from a world that doesn’t exist anymore.