Times Like These
Emira stumbles into class, with her Harry Potter glasses sloppily lowered and an overstretched strap of her backpack slung over her shoulder. She’s silent but her expression bellows in agony. Her presence emits chaos. A mess does not even begin to describe her. Looking at her, I don’t know which of the two she needs more: a comb or a hug.
Hunched back at her desk, Emira barely keeps her head up. Her feet furiously jolt up and down. I feel the shaking on the other side of the room. Agitated, she can hardly hold her pencil. Emira manages to quietly wipe away her torrent of tears. The class suddenly shrinks from fourteen to thirteen. The energy of the classroom returns to neutral. Times like these, I feel great unease. What I initially mistake as some potentially heinous gas are just my feelings of blue for Emira. Unfortunately, this is nothing new for me to see and for her to experience.
Unbeknownst to Emira, she has reeled herself into my life. I often find myself taking a double-take as to how quickly she has drawn me to her, that too in less than six months. Our conversations make me realize that she’s like no other.
Her breath is invigorating. Light and gentle breeze rushing into my ears immediately captivates me. Her voice tells a tale of its own. The anecdote changes as time progresses, but the quality of telling never does. Hearty helpings of sensory details and telling observations accompany all of her stories. Emira never knows what the hell she’s going to say. I love it. Every word that leaves her mouth is an extra loop on the rollercoaster of her dialogues. I never want the ride to end.
Times like these, in which her mental health is on the precipice of collapsing, her voice still speaks of strength. Her knees far too weak yet her will so strong, she moves onward. Her speech may not have the same bounce it normally does but listlessness is not an option for Emira.
Emira’s narrating is defined by her eyes. Full of life, those deep-set browns radiate an undimmed light. They are soft but piquant. Every time I come across them, I am invited to linger for a few extra minutes. They ricochet recklessly and widen wildly. They keep me quiet. I hear her voice, but I listen to her eyes.
Times like these, her spirit is low and her depression hits hard. However, her eyes still sparkle. Hope lives in them. With every sunset, it seems as if their buoyancy is closer and closer to fading away. Nonetheless, the sun rises the next morning. Alongside, the candor I have always known her eyes to have, remains.
Stories are only as interesting and engaging as the people who tell them. Emira’s calm demeanor juxtaposed with her spirited nature compels me to listen. Hearing her talk, I realize why I admire her so much.
Her narratives ooze with multiple perspectives. Emira manages to always take into account everyone’s sentiments and concerns. Most of all, regardless of disagreements and quarrels, Emira makes herself clear: she respects all, regardless of their convictions.
Times like these, in which mounting pressure from her disorders may seem to break both her and her spirit, she still maintains her principles. Emira stays true to herself. She never uses her ill health, mental or physical, to compromise core virtues. Stubborn and hard on herself, she often tells me “Times get tough and with that, I have to as well.”
Back in class, she is still gone. The rest of the students are focused on their math homework. The substitute is fixated on the never-ending messages on her phone sounded by her ringer. Everyone is doing something except for me. I stare into space, wondering “where the hell is she?” It’s been forty minutes since Emira has left. Given that this happens weekly, I should be used to it. But I’m not. The feelings of blue only spiral.
I love her at her best. Nothing changes at her worst. Seeing the person who I have an unparalleled connection with progressively worsen pains me beyond words. I know there’s one thing I can do right now. Times like these, I’ll ditch the comb and go with a hug.
