The Golden World

The first time I found the golden world, you weren’t with me. I was six, and my family had just moved to the city. Of course, there were rules: if I was on my own, Central Park was forbidden. I was usually on my own though, and Manhattan’s streets, where the city’s supply of grease was baked into the sidewalks, were dull and dangerous, raucous and revolting. Once I started exploring, it was impossible to stop. I wandered through the park’s gates and made it about ten feet before I found it.

A golden dome.

I raced forward and dove in head first, and spent the whole afternoon immersed in it. A golden cradle, with golden walls, and tiny holes and gaps to let the sun in. A golden bungalow, where the fresh ones stayed smooth and soft to the touch, and the dried ones crumbled into fine golden filaments. There was no red or green or brown or orange — there was only the color of goodness. It was a golden world underneath that dome.

The second time I found the golden world, I was fifteen and fooling around. Not with you — you still weren’t with me then. She was the girl from the diner I frequented, and was probably emotionally unstable, but she was cute and available. I took her to the park and we made ourselves comfortable beneath a young oak tree. We kissed for a long time; when I finally opened my eyes, there was the golden world, hanging above our heads like gleaming clouds. When pieces of tossed gold fell into her hair she complained, but I liked it. We were captured in a light that was so rich, so viscous: it was nourishing.

The third time was when I first saw you. I was twenty-three and in my prime and bored out of my mind. We were both attending an outdoor graduates’ conference; you were speaking and I was trying not to snore at you. I wouldn’t have noticed much if it weren’t for the wind. A gust siphoned and emptied the air behind me before it spilled gold onto your podium. The golden world fluttered and spilled all around you, engulfed you and excited you, and for the first time the golden world did not keep my attention for very long. I searched through the twinkling dust, past the gleaming, vibrant confetti, to find the gem at the center of the globe, and God, when I found you I prayed the wind wouldn’t swirl the golden blizzard to obscure you again. The chill in the air made it look like you never stopped blushing and the wind made your hair look like a mop on your head. Your speech was atrocious but you were adorable. I watched you sit down and reach for your coffee. I liked the way you brought the mug to your mouth — all grace and poise and daintiness. No spills, no slurps, no stains. You fit into the golden world like red on a poinsettia. One thought clamored and clung, clanged and stuck in my mind: “I can’t wait to meet you again, friend.”

The fourth time found us wrapped in wool and kindness outside in the park, underneath a willow, seven years later. The ring had been out of my pocket and on your finger for a few years, and as the breeze shook golden shapes upon us I finally told you about the first time I found the golden world. I made you laugh at first, but you were captivated.

“What about the second time?’’ So I told you about that, too. You quirked an eyebrow when I mentioned the diner girl and asked, “What kind of tree is this?”

“A willow,” I answered.

“Wrong. It’s an oak tree.”

It was clearly a willow but you cut me off before I could object.

“This tree, right here, is oak. We’re sitting underneath an oak tree, and we are in the golden world.” I kissed you for a long time then, and didn’t need to open my eyes.

The last time I found the golden world was the last day you were with me.

It was stolen by an intruder, and you helped him every way you could. Gold blanketed the sidewalk outside of the cafe where I first discovered you two. We locked eyes, but all I could do was walk on.

That winter brought a cold that seeped into the ground and crawled into my bones. It found all the cracks and took permanent purchase in my chest and I stayed frozen even in the summer. I walked, head bent against the wind and hands in my pockets, through a park littered with leaves. There was no red or green or orange or brown — there was one color, and whatever it was, it wasn’t goodness. It had been three years since I saw you, and still I was frigid. Your voice reached me from somewhere past the trees and when I looked up, you weren’t alone. You were holding his hand and there were new laugh lines around your mouth. You smiled at me after one startled moment. I kept walking.

Eight years later I was still cold, depleted, and tired. I was so tired, and ached in a way that made me numb. I found glimpses of you more often over the years, but none of my golden world. That was the new me: reduced to a depraved thing that skulked and spied through another man’s windows. You waved at me from a bus stop; you might have even called my name. I walked on.

It had been nearly twenty-seven years and exhaustion was my constant companion. Winter’s presence got tired of me years ago and left my bones to prey on some other poor soul’s spirit. In its place was a weakness that bent my back and grayed my hair, that stifled my smile, that smothered my stride. I was aware of his passing, of your grief and loneliness, and yet it was weeks after his death that I found the strength to approach you. Camellias were clutched in my withered hands. I knocked on your door and waited. There was no walking this time, no ignoring your presence; I was trapped in a new kind of dome and it was closing its walls with haste, suffocating me. The door opened slowly and I was greeted with tired wrinkles and eyes as red as poinsettias. “I’m sorry for your loss.” I was sorry for mine, too.

You looked at the flowers, then looked at me. You didn’t know what to say, so you didn’t say anything. The door closed and the flowers landed somewhere by the steps. I walked on.

You left the city and two years later, you still weren’t back. I had not changed much; I was still old, still gray, still tired. I was impervious to winter and thought I was blind to the color of goodness until I passed through your street. The pungent odor of paint wafted from your door, and there I saw you painting gold onto the entrance. You looked good and healed and healthy, and you looked right at me. I walked to your steps and waited for something to crush me, but it was there I was revived.

“I’ve missed you for a long time,” you said. “Can we make a new one?”

The golden world wasn’t the same as it was before, but it was new, and it was needed.