The memorial may not have been the coolest place to take Deni. But then they cannot get embarrassed. And I used to go there with Mum.
You reach the site via the palm trees on the west side of the city. A solar tram journey and a thirty minute walk is all you need. A cheap day out until you pay for a drink. And if your guest cannot drink anything then even cheaper!
The pebbles on the path up are pink and lime green, and reminded me of jelly beans (did you know jelly beans used to have animal fat in them?) A decade ago these palm trees did not exist. We walked through scrubland them. Now they are a curved green ceiling over our heads, perfect cover for a stroll.
I use the time to discuss my Butter Mouse edit with Deni. They moved in tandem with me, and for a long time the only noise they made was the rustle of their clothes, and the crunch of mucky trainers.. Either listening intently, or not listening at all.
In the end they said. ‘Perhaps…where it comes from…the dreams are in order. When…it’s awake….here, it…gets jumbled.’
‘So you mean what I think are dreams are the thoughts of back home?’
‘Perhaps…I don’t dream.’
I touched them on the shoulder. Their jumper was threadbare and grimy, and colder than I expected. Like a cherry ice. I wondered what might happen if they were able to bathe in the water. Would it go cool?
At our destination the woods thinned out to a sole remaining palm tree, over thirty foot high. At regular intervals on the was a list of names. A silhouette of a flying bird sat on the trunk. Mum always told me the veterans took turns carving them. That the process did not hurt the plant, and although permanent, was a few millimetres deep, nowhere near the crucial living innards. I still doubt they would allow this today.
The cafe was our real objective. A row of white chairs identical from my childhood framed the hut. Three veterans sat as a group, their cogs catching the after sun. A cherry ice for me of course.
Deni loaded their mouth with another a menthol cigarette. Yellow powder coated the sleeves of their jumper, and every time they moved their arms a sprinkling fell onto the pebbles. One veteran raised his eyebrows, but i had to laugh. This is the fun of hanging out with Deni.
Some might consider it hypocritical or needless due to my lack of involvement or indeed birth during the conflict, but I still wanted to leave an offering. And if Deni cared, they at least had a reason to do so.
Again, the bowl of ball bearings was identical to the one from my childhood. We both took a handful, and pushed them into the ground at the based of the palm. Deni squished them so hard into the mud their handprint was visible. Another veterans tutted, and I hid a giggle.
On the tram home I chose to sit next to them. Glad to be here, with my friend. First time I have forgotten about going off planet for a while.
Clip: A hand! Another creature! And is that writing? What is this place?