threads — the howl mag

Thoughts | Tehlan Lenius

I remember the first time I slept over at a friend’s house and the trip to the grocery store that my mother took me on the day before. She held my hand while we walked through the produce section, telling me to pick out oranges. They had to be the best. The freshest. She made me examine each one, just to make sure. When we arrived at my friend’s house, I awkwardly said thank you to her parents, in the evasive way that children often do—as if they still aren’t sure whether the words taste bitter or sweet. I did my duty and gave them the fruit, oblivious to the confusion written on their faces.

The next time I stayed over, I chose to bring grapes.

The time after that, I brought plums.

I would go through the same ritual with everyone who ever shared their home with me, again and again—a child doing what they were told until the day came when I wasn’t a child anymore.

I’m nineteen, unceremoniously dumping a bag of oranges into my friend’s hands while standing in the doorway of her dorm room.

Tehlan, you really don’t have to, she insists for the hundredth time, except the thing is that I do. I don’t remember when, but somewhere along the way, the act had become a force of habit—as natural to me as saying please and thank you. If anyone ever asked why, I’d say I do it for the same reason I always keep plastic food containers.

My Oma used to hoard them, her kitchen filled with flimsy take-out boxes and hollow tins. They weren’t always empty, though. More often than not, I’d go to open the margarine tub only to find leftovers of her homemade goulash sitting there instead. When I opened the fridge, I never knew what I would find, though I did know that if I finished the sour cream, I would be expected to wash out the container and add it to the collection.

It still feels wrong to throw them away. My little monkey brain tells me to keep them, and most of the time, I do it without realizing. It’s something I don’t think about, like looking both ways before crossing the street, or saying love you at the end of goodbyes—the way my Gung Gung used to do. Every time we talked, he’d say it, short and quick. I don’t remember when I started saying it too, but at some point, it became instinct, the words punctuating the ends of my phone calls, and drifting through the air when I parted ways with my friends and turned to shout it across the street.

I say love you like I say goodbye. I tie my shoes the bunny ear way. I cut my sandwiches diagonally instead of across. I listen to the band Hollywood Undead, not because I like rap music, but because my brother used to play their songs around the house when I was little, and nostalgia is a genre that never gets old.

In tenth grade, a boy told me that flies always buzz in the key of F. I still think about it every time I swat one away, the buzz buzz buzz beside my ear moving along the F major scale in perfect pitch. Ever since he pointed it out, I can’t unhear it. I don’t want to. The fact isn’t mine, but it’s a part of me, a part that I can’t let go of, even if I try.

Sometimes, I wonder if there's anything about me that I didn’t learn from somebody else—if that's all I am, at the end of the day, a puzzle made up of pieces from everyone I’ve ever met. I wonder if I would still wish on shooting stars if no one had told me to. If I would still love mangoes as much as I do now if they weren’t my father’s favourite fruit.

I hope that when I have my own house, the fridge is full of wrong labels. I hope that when I’m old and grey, the words love you still tag along at the end of my goodbyes. I hope I stay this way, collecting threads I can weave into the fabric of my being, the bits and pieces aligning like stars in the sky so that I can smile and say: This is who I am. There’s no one else quite like me.