One Page #44

We were sitting in her living room and she was reading me paragraphs from her latest book. I was across the room from her on the couch watching her as she stood by the window overlooking the busy street. The streetlamps shone on her face, but I could only see the curve of her jaw since she was mostly turned toward the window. Her reflection mimicked her face as she read, animated and involved. I spent more time watching her face than listening to her words, and I knew I would pay for that mistake soon enough. She was nearing the end of the first chapter and I knew she would turn around at look at me, her eyes questioning what I thought. I would have little to say but could have told her in detail how her expressions changed as she read. It wasn’t her story that prevented me from hearing her words. I could say that it was mostly because I am a visual reader and need the page in front of me, my eyes reading the lines, to actually absorb the content. But this wasn’t entirely true. Mostly, I was captivated. I couldn’t stop looking at her face, and I was distracted by the curve of her lips that undulated as she spoke and I thought of wild horses racing off through fields of wheat. I watched her hair bob gently back and forth as she moved her head around in emphasis of the words, and I thought of trees bending in the breeze. Not just any trees, but trees that were embedded deep in the forest where few human feet passed by and songbirds chirped in a rowdy chorus. I watched her nostrils flare when the one evil character entered and significantly bowed and tipped his top hat, and I thought of wild turkeys screaming at their enemies with open jaws and snapping teeth. Her face created a story that I could watch, like a film, whereas her written story, however intriguing, were words that whispered into my ears and then blew back out in a swirl of dust and feathers. There was a pause, and I saw her face grow still in her reflection. The streetlamps twinkled in her eyes that swam with the effort of reading aloud, something she didn’t normally enjoy but made her anxious and her breath come quickly. She turned. She looked at me with questioning eyes. I smiled back at her and clapped my hands with vigor, a grin spreading wider on my face. She blushed, and grinned back at me. But I was applauding not for her story, which I am sure was articulate and engaging, but for the transformations that changed her face with every second, with every word that she spoke. I clapped for the blowing wheat and the whispering trees and the screaming turkeys and her breath the fogged the window with steam that made me hot. She bowed and promised to read the next chapter tomorrow.

One Page #43

The beginning of a storm starts with a growl of thunder, like a hungry stomach. And then a wind that picks up speed as it turns leaves over and sends trees crawling over each other. I am always amazed that they remain upright, no matter how fiercely the wind howls. Although branches do come down, and sometimes whole trunks, and I hear sirens screaming and imagine cars and houses and hopefully not people crunched underneath. Every storm is a gamble, but the don’t come without warning. They build, and it this tension that draws faces towards the sky, and muscles clenched in the unknown. The sky darkens slowly. The clouds have been slowly rolling in all day, but mostly they weren’t storm clouds, just humidity clouds that were as pale as the faded blue sky. Birds scramble towards cover and the cat preens on the deck in the final moments of dryness. I sit on the porch, but know that I will be inside soon. The rain begins. Lightly at first, it slowly dampens the pavement and brings the smell that only rain can bring. The then rain becomes heavier, slowly, mounting like an orchestral crescendo. And more thunder, closer this time. I see people on their porches running for cover, a woman who had been gardening stand up slowly, brushing off her knees as if she had all the time in the world to stay dry. Or maybe she welcomes the cool air that comes with the rain. More thunder and the rain is heavier still. But the storm is only beginning. I move further back on the porch and can only feel occasional drops on my legs that extend to the storm searching for relief from the heat. The rain lightens momentarily, but I know that it is only temporary. The real storm is still miles off. More thunder, closer yet, and aggressive. I wait. Sometimes it takes longer than I expect for the storm to blow in full force and angry. I can feel the sky opening up, relieving itself of all the tension that has been mounting. The first of the lightening flashes, a quick streak across the sky. And then the rain tumbles down with strength. It is roaring now. The last of the people run for cover, realizing the seriousness now. This storm isn’t messing around; it is crashing towards us with an iron fist shaking at the earth. The breeze picks up and cools my forehead and ankles. Raindrops fall heavily from the roof and splatter voraciously, pooling and spreading. Cars drive slower, headlights come on and wipers pick up speed. But the center of the storm is still a ways off. And I just wait, knowing it will come, but not in any hurry for it. You can’t hurry a storm; it just doesn’t work that way. A storm is far beyond my control, and I just let it happen to me, like a breath, mounting then calming.

One Page #42

Bob scoured the parking lot. It was long abandoned and weeds had grown through the cracks. The lot was surrounded by a chain link fence that had been cut and stretched and climbed over hundreds of times. Bob remembered when the space was the parking lot for the neighborhood grocery, which was also abandoned now. Nothing had replaced the grocery and the windows were broken and the walls were covered in graffiti. The floors were beaten down, littered with butts and bottles and even a small pile of syringes in the corner. Bob had only looked in the window, but not gone inside. He had been away too long, and fear that he hadn’t know before had crept into his chest, warning him to stay away. But the parking lot held personal interest, and so he climbed through a hole in the fence and wandered around, toeing the broken pavement to see what was underneath and admiring the purple chicory that grew heedless of its rundown surroundings. It brought a colorful cheer to the lot that was otherwise grayed and left behind even by the neighborhood gangs. Bob heard a shot far off, and he shuddered. He fingered his pocket, but found nothing but lint and an few coins. His right hand still felt trigger-happy and he remembered. He remembered too much. An image of Carol shot through his mind and he blinked away the sadness and nostalgia. He walked with renewed purpose to the other side of the lot where an oak tree hung over, bedraggled and ignored. Around the far side of the tree, the side right next to the fence where even a few links dug into its bark as the tree grew, he pushed aside leaves and dead branches until he found what he was looking for. He fingered the heart carved into the tree bark, still visible like an old scar. Inside the heart’s outline he could still barely make out the B+C that he had carved so carefully, so long ago. Carol had stood by watching, smiling, bemused. They had always made fun of couples who had carved their initials to be remembered forever, like sweethearts who would never grow apart. They were already growing apart, and the carving was a symbol of this separation. Carol was going to live with her aunt upstate. No reason was given to Bob. He didn’t ask. But he would remember. And he hoped that she would also, even though he was beginning to doubt that. He would find his way out of this city too, somehow. He wasn’t sure how just yet. Another gunshot rang out, closer this time, and it woke Bob up from the past. He traced his finger once more around the heart, smiled faintly, and walked back toward the hole he had entered through. He would not come back here again. He had grown soft in his small town life. He no longer needed the past.

One Page #41

When Jerry came in with a plate of cookies and set them on the kitchen table he didn’t expect the dogs to go after them. But they did and when he returned to the kitchen a few minutes later after visiting his mother who was permanently in bed he found the plate licked clean and shining with saliva. The dogs were by the door now, panting to go out, no doubt infected with a sugar rush. Jerry silently cursed under his breath and slammed open the door. The dogs raced out and ran around to the back yard. He brought the plate to the sink and washed it thoroughly. Cookies were his specialty and his mother’s favorite. She hadn’t been able to get up since her unfortunate surgery that rendered her immobile. Since then she hadn’t smiled and her eyes had gone flat. Jerry tried desperately to revive her spirits, but she had gone completely cold. The blood still pumped through her veins, but it was all useless now. And now even the cookies were gone. He would have to go home to make a new batch. He remembered that he needed brown sugar and more chocolate chips. The dogs were back at the door, wanting to be let in and given attention no doubt. He sullenly opened the door and they bounced around, licking his knees. He didn’t move but stood looking out the door at the cars that passed slowly outside. The day was turned gray, and now his mood had taken a severe turn for the worse. He was slowly giving up on brightening his mother’s outlook. He had tried for almost four months, but nothing registered anymore. She ate and slept and seemingly listened to him when he told her stories about his day at the factory, but she didn’t look at him any longer, and her face never moved a muscle. He took the phone off the hook and dialed his sister. They were in regular contact now, even though they hadn’t been for years until recently. They wrote Christmas cards, and sometimes birthday cards, but rarely more than that, even though they lived only a half hour away from each other. Now they spoke almost every day or so. Their mother lived just around the corner from Jerry, so he was there far more often than his sister, and he called to update her. He usually had little to say. When his sister picked up and listened to the update, he silently prayed that she would agree with his proposition. He thought she would, but wasn’t sure. It was risky even mentioning. But it would help them all, their mother included, in the long run. He mentioned it nervously, his voice shaking. There was a pause and Jerry held his breath. But she agreed. The following week Jerry bought flowers and a shovel. It was unofficial, but finalized. He would plant cornflowers over her grave, they were her favorite.

One Page #40

The volume wasn’t the problem. It was the gaping hole between her teeth that was the problem. And that I couldn’t shy away from. She smiled and a photograph clicked in my memory and even today, years later, I think about that gap that was the shape of a highway disappearing over the horizon. I think that if I started walking down that road I would never find myself again. Her eyes shone and her cheeks blushed, but it was the gap, almost a ravine falling away into an abyss, which was the sole focus no matter how hard I tried to stray away from it. It was deep and dark in there, and I wondered what kind of ghosts, monsters, gods as captivating as Medusa laid waiting. There was gravel shifting beneath my feet and I thought about grabbing a handful and shoving it into her mouth, breaking her teeth and reforming the gap, widening the highway, and crushing her devilish smile. But I stood motionless. She talked on and I watched, not listened. Her words were nothing more than a whisper in my ears. I found myself leaning closer. She may have noticed because the volume of her voice got louder. She articulated more clearly; looked at me more closely. But I didn’t notice. My eyes were transfixed and it was as if my whole body was shaped just to watch the black hole. I felt it reaching out for me. Its fingers were liquid and enticing. It had me by the neck, and reached for my own partially opened mouth. It crawled beyond my lips and onto my tongue and then slivered down my throat. It had me by a firm hold, but from the inside as if it knew that it could conquer me starting in my inner orifices and working outward toward my skin and my hair and my toenails. I didn’t move. My eyes got wider. She looked at me and looked away, as if embarrassed. I didn’t know why she was embarrassed. She handled me like a puppet, my nerves twitching as if each were attached to a string that she plucked. She paused in her monologue, and closed her mouth. The reaching fingers lets go and disappear back through her closed lips and the strings were snipped and released. I blinked again and looked into her eyes. I noticed that they were a pale blue and reflected my face so cautiously timid. When she raised her eyebrows, it was my turn to be embarrassed. I looked down at the gravel and it blinked in the sun. I shifted my weight and the gravel shifted beneath me and the sound of it crunching startled me. Sound cascaded into my ears as if I hadn’t heard anything in a long time and my ears had forgotten how to listen. When I looked up I saw her walking away. I knew I would never see that highway stretching out before me again. My throat felt empty, lacking, lonely.

One Page #39

I never knew where I was with her. I looked into her eyes and saw an emptiness covered by desperation. Even when they were radiating happiness. I still never knew. Her bangs fell over her eyes and nearly touched her cheeks that bloomed out in the summer heat, flushed and freckled. The corners of her lips curved into a smile that was almost mocking. She told me once that she was determined not to get frown lines so she drew her mouth into this awkward smile, even when she didn’t want to be smiling. You could tell because her eyes were blank, flat, unless she was really smiling and then they shone with an amused twinkle. She was hard to read. I finally gave up trying to understand. Usually the tone of her voice was the only hint. And even then her smooth soft voice didn’t fluctuate too much. But she squeezed my hand and goose bumps would jump up on her arm, sending the small blonde hairs erect. Then I knew she was happy. And I was happy. And I squeezed back. Out on the pier we escaped her mother’s watching eyes. Always watching. Looking. She didn’t scold or offer opinions. She just looked. It made us both nervous, especially me since I wasn’t quite used to it yet. I hoped I would get used to it though. If this lasted. And I thought it might. But with a girl who is hard to read, you never really know. I was always questioning myself. And that was exhausting. When the moon rose and the stars came out and they reflected on the waves that rolled in without ceasing and the pier emptied when everyone went home, we sat on the end with our legs over the edge and felt the chill settle in. I would let go of her hand and put my arm around her shoulders to keep her warm. She would nestle in. I couldn’t see her eyes then, and could only read her by how much she relaxed and let herself fall into me. Otherwise, I had no idea. But that was ok right then. I figured that she would be off with her other friends if she didn’t want to be there with me. And so I relaxed to and let me head fall lightly onto hers and we watched the swells and an occasional gull fly by, diving for fish, or looking for a place to rest. We heard the sea lions as they barked out to sea, calling to the horizon. The sharp smell of fish caught in my nose and I sighed. Another day had passed, so quickly that I hardly remembered what had happened. Next week I would go home, the car packed, and my brothers squashed into the backseat, my crossword puzzle book on the lap. But I would be staring out the window, pen poised. The ocean would fall away, and her eyes would fall away, and once again I would return. With her body held close I leaned over and saw our reflection in the water far below.

One Page #38

So much of life was stillness just then. And it was unsettling. When everything stops you wonder whether you have stopped too, and ceased to exist for a moment, however brief. And then with a bang everything floods back in, exacerbating the lost moment of calm. Whether or not you enjoy the stillness while life is on pause, you will mostly certainly enjoy it once you are scrambling to keep up. The rope was still swinging back and forth in the breeze. No one had taken it completely down, just cut the loop on the end. While I watched it swinging everything else was still. The air held me upright and I was lulled into the slow motion of the frayed rope. I wondered how he had reached the rafter to fasten the end. It was so high up. When the breeze stopped the roped stopped moving and everything fell into motion again. Sirens screamed toward the house and I looked to the woods in desperation, hoping they would reach out and swallow me whole. Instead I would be identifying and signing and releasing. The rope twitched. I felt as if I were being pushed from behind by a forceful wave. The van drove away with lights blinking. A few cars followed. I stood on the front walk and watched. Silence. My hands shook, and if I hadn’t been standing I guessed my feet would be shaking too. Inside, I put on a black shirt and re-outlined my eyes in black. The stillness returned. The house was quiet after so much commotion. I wondered how long it would last, days, perhaps weeks. I wasn’t sure I could handle that. I threw my fist into the wall to test whether the bang would shake the stillness. It didn’t. Instead my knuckles hurt. I lay down on the couch and fell into the stillness. I released myself to the stillness. I gave in and it felt so good. The stillness was a power far beyond my own, and it reminded me of how small I was. I felt like I was being carried, but I didn’t know where to. I hoped that wherever I was headed would provide me with a moment of peace. A moment of letting go. I gently rubbed my knuckles and listened to the occasional car roll by outside, slowly as if already in the funeral procession. I thought about my car with the flag on the antennae. I thought about the flowers in tall vases and the carpet that softens our footsteps into a collective hush. I thought about the reflection on the casket that shone under the gentle but florescent lights, and the fingerprints that would grapple with understanding, desperately clawing for an answer, quietly overlapping each other and further confusing the swirled prints. I closed my eyes. I wondered if the rope still swung back and forth or whether it was still now. I would cut it down tomorrow. Until then it would be a reminder.

One Page #37

In the event of an emergency please extinguish the cat and save the photographs. All else can go. In fact, it would be a relief. There is too much around here, I trip and fall my way down the hall and it is dark so I can’t see where I am going. There is so much stuff around here, but no light bulbs to replace the one that burnt out and so I keep on tripping each time I go up and down the hallway. The rooms are mostly blocked off now. Doors have been closed as if they can be denied their existence because no one can see in. But the sky can see in, and the trees and the sun, so the rooms must still exist somehow. Just not in our consciousness. The photographs are in a box right next to the back door. It is as if we are all expecting the house to spontaneously combust, and we want to be prepared. And we are prepared. We nearly have our suitcases packed and ready to go. Our hands instinctively reaching for the handles, prepared to grab and run. But so far we are at ten sunny days and not a hint of flame. Even wavering cigarette butts and random acts of lighters flickering don’t send this house to its rightful position of ash and charred wood and melted windows. It is no use. It seems indestructible and we are wildly disappointed. The air is too clean and we long for plumes of smoke, rising and tumbling out over the river and into the city where people would look out their windows and wonder what was happening upstream and whether everyone was all right. But they would turn back to their newspapers or their quiet dinners, and would never find out aside from a possible mention in the city papers the next day. But it would be so small, just a sentence, and so easy to miss. Most people would. The cat was white and he shed everywhere, especially on my black shirts. He seemed to mostly ignore me until I was wearing black, which was often, and then he would follow me begging for attention and pressing his nose deeply into my thigh so hard he would nock my legs over and I would nearly fall off the bed where I was lying, scheming, and hoping for rain. Lightening would do. Lightening starts fires. I instinctively looked to the sky as if my thinking about lightening would make it appear in a glorious thunderstorm headed directly for our house alone. But the sky was blue and fading to black as evening approached. I could already imagine its sparkling starlit deepness with not a cloud to shroud the moon. I glowered and turned back to my book. I had almost been dozing off, but was trying to catch myself. I flicked cigarette ash to the floor and a moment later looked over the edge of the bed to see if small flames were lapping. They weren’t. I read on. The night grew darker, clearer.

One Page #36

In the cool blue October dusk, not a cloud passed overhead. The air was still and the leaves lay settled in their places on the tree limbs. The grass stood tall but quietly. Three friends walked down the gravel road toward home. They had been at the beach all day surfing the waves and collecting mussel shells at low tide. They had waved at the passing lobster boats and followed the small airplanes in their course across the horizon. As the light dimmed the air grew cooler and they headed for their warm kitchens thinking about stews and apple pies with vanilla ice cream. Their stomachs growled softly as they walked along in silence. A breeze came up and rustled the leaves that lined the avenue, and the grasses that stood tall, and the hair on their heads blowing it gently away from their faces that shone from many hours in the sun. Their eyes still sparkled from the exertion of running up the sand dunes with their arms laden with towels and picnic blankets. Into town the two of the friends walked in opposite directions towards home while the third went straight on down the main street towards her home on the other side of town. She passed the post office and the library and the grocery store still filled with people gathering ingredients for dinner. The light deepened suddenly and lights flickered on in the stores and the houses. Her house lay at the end of the main street and the front door was open, inviting the cooling breeze and welcoming her home. Inside her brothers crashed about, excited with a day of successful fishing. Her mother and father chopped vegetables and she could smell haddock baking in the oven with lemon and breadcrumbs. She was suddenly hungry, but overwhelmed by all the noise from her family after so many hours on the beach with only the crashing waves and her friends’ quiet laughter interrupting the silence. Her body was tired from swimming and her bag felt heavy on her shoulder. She went upstairs and left her bag by the door. She moved toward the window and looked out over the sand dunes to the ocean beyond. She saw the lighthouse blinking rhythmically and heard the fog horn start up. Rain was moving in. she pulled her hair back into a ponytail and curled up on her bed, quietly content with a long day in the sun. her eyes closed with a sudden heaviness and she fell into a deep sleep littered with dreams of white surf and crabs that were ten feet tall who carried her lightly over the sand on their backs. A woman in yellow rubber coveralls drove by on her fishing boat, delighted to see her riding so high up on the hard shell. They waved to one another. The sunrays licked her cheek and the crabs cackled with jokes only they could understand.

One Page #35

Perhaps she was heartened by the greeting card left in her mailbox with no stamp informing her that it had been hand delivered while she had been in town. It was odd knowing that someone had come to her house while she was away. While she was buying zucchini or looking at the most recent cooking magazines, someone had come by and opened her mailbox leaving her a note. She fingered the creamy white envelope and admired the calligraphy spelling out her name. Someone had been thinking about her earlier and had drawn out each letter of her name. She might have been taking a shower or cutting strawberries over her cereal while someone was licking the tacky glue on the edge of the seal, securing a letter inside. She had been oblivious to this entire process while she went about her daily chores. The kitchen still needed to be mopped and her books needed dusting. But that could wait a moment. Her groceries were heavy on her arm so she took them and the letter to her front porch. The groceries waited on the front steps while she carefully unsealed the envelope and pulled out a matching creamy paper folded twice. She unfolded it and found the same cursive handwriting inside. The writing was brief. She had been invited to dinner the following evening. Her neighbor, Gracie, had a garden overflowing with vegetables and was inviting the block to her house for dinner in an attempt to free her kitchen counters from the overwhelming amount of tomatoes and squash and basil. She was heartened by this invitation. But a small and private part of her was disappointed as well. The cursive was so sensually inviting and reminded her of cherry pie in late summer. She thought maybe, just maybe. But no, not today. Dinner would be delightful and she would share a bountiful meal with her neighbors who were often too busy to get together with one another. She looked up at the sky and saw that it was darkening in preparation for a storm. The air was thick and she figured she should pick some of her own tomatoes before the rain came. She brought the groceries inside and laid the May Sarton novel that had been in her pocket on the kitchen table. Back outside she was attacked by mosquitoes that were attracted by the sweat on her brow. She went to feed her sheep, one black and one white, and moved them into the barn for the storm. They bleated at her and nosed into her pockets in hopes that she had brought them a treat. She had, of course. It started to rain. The tomatoes were still hanging on the vine as the drops fell with attacking force on her garden. She followed her sheep into the barn and stayed there for the storm, stroking their dirty wool, so thick.

One Page #34

Are you praying for rain little girl? The old woman with the crinkled eyes leaned over the girl in the spotted browning dress. The girl was weeding in her garden of herbs but looking more at the sky than the dirt falling between her fingers. The clouds were filling in, diminishing the blue and darkening the earth. The girl looked up at the old woman with curiosity and a little bit of fear. She had never seen this old woman before, and she hadn’t heard her come up from behind. The woman still bent over the little girl, sending the girls blonde curls into the shade. The girl smiled and said yes, she was praying silently for rain so that she wouldn’t have to water her garden but could let God water it for her. The old woman smiled and said that that was what God did best, water little girls’ gardens. The girl looked confused at this statement, so she went back to her weeding with reinvigorated force flinging unwanted weeds into a pile that grew into a mound and then a small mountain. The old woman stood up straight and the blonde curls danced back into the sun again. The woman looked at the sky and prayed for sun to guide her way home. She was miles from home, and lost with no food or water for many hours. She looked back at the girl whose arms were now covered in dirt. She prayed that the girl would offer her water and she prayed that the girl would stand up and talk to her the way little girls were supposed to. The girl stopped weeding and stood up, but did not look at the old woman and did not offer the old woman water. Instead she brushed off her arms and hands and looked again at the sky. She saw a giraffe parading across the sky with a small mouse in tow, both eating from the trees that leaned in and blocked their path. The blue diminished and disappeared and small drops began to fall. The girl smiled as they plopped onto her cheeks and moistened her lips to a shiny red, washing away the dirt that had clouded her face. The drops came with greater and greater speed and the girl twirled around a few times before waving and running up the front path and inside her door. The old woman stood and watched the girl disappear. Then she knelt next to the pile of weeds and systematically replanted each and every unwanted green stalk until the garden looked as it had when the old woman first arrived behind the little girl. The woman patted down the dirt, got up and brushed her hands off, and continued on down the sidewalk, humming an old tune. Her belly was full and her lips were saturated. Around the corner she came to her home and inside she found rest and silence. The little girl heard thunder and saw great flashes of lightning. Her cat purred at her feet. Tomorrow she would plant tomatoes.

One Page #33

The color of sleep was a silent S in red. It was splattered against the wall in random polka dots dancing with graceful feet and angular arms. Red curls flashed wildly. The only meaning I could decipher was an encoded inscription of a passage from Deuteronomy in verses that were numbered backwards. I wasn’t sure where to begin. When she looked at me through the pane of the glass window divided into seventy-seven panes of awkward sizes her eyes were huge and her eyebrows arched. She held up a book up, but the division of glass blurred the title and I had to squint and move my eyes around to focus on each letter spelling a word that was so long I didn’t think it possible. I read one letter after the next and the list continued on like marching soldiers through the misty swamps up to their necks in murky water so warm from the sun that sent spirals of light through the water that lapped around their collars so stiff but wilting from the dampness. I never got the title of the book and her face disappeared from the pane that had distorted her face into a microcosm of worlds each flesh toned but flushed and synonymous with pain. I winced. And turned around and walked away from the splintered panes. I heard a man singing and banging on a bucket, but I couldn’t see him. He must have been around the corner where the shadows danced and the trees bent low nearly to the pavement. His voice resonated and echoed and I recognized the tune until he changed it and I couldn’t hum along anymore because it was strange and disharmonious. My pants felt heavy on my hips and my shoes scuffed unnecessarily on the ground. I found a shell, a perfect circle, in the middle of my walk. It sat there effortlessly until I disturbed its rest by removing it from the ground and holding it in my palm so close to my eyes that my eyelashes almost touched the soft shell speckled with grays. In one exhalation it turned to dust and blew away down the street swirling in the gutters and falling into hair curls and book bags. It was gone so quickly I thought I had imagined it and I put my hand into my pocket to keep it safe, just in case it reached again for something that didn’t exist. A light flashed ahead and lightning flashed through the sky and rain began to fall just as I reached my red door the color of sleep with a lion’s head knocker so regal and shining bronze. My groceries felt heavy in my arms and the sun disappeared behind a black cloud that sent the street into instant night with no stars and only storms on the way. The air was chill and I thought of peppermint tea and a slice of lemon. But I had no lemons and only had chamomile tea, so I figured I would have to sleep soon, the color of red.

One Page #32

I wonder how many people put their hands together in prayer every day. I wonder why people clasp hands, or put their palms together. Maybe it is to still the hands. In a dark room a woman in black clasped her hands together, knuckles white and tense, arms shaking. Looking to the sky in desperation. If lightning struck her down right now. If the floor fell out from underneath her. If a window shattered sending shards into her open eyes. But none of these happened and I watched her from where I stood deep in the shadows where the darkness covered up my slow breath. Her eyes pleaded. I wondered what she was praying for. I didn’t know her. I had never seen her before. The lines on her face showed long times of stress, worry. My brow wrinkled. I wondered why she worried. I thought about the row of rooms, all stone lined up and down the hall, where other women in black kneeled in reverence. Did they all have worry lines? A bell tolled many miles away. It was eleven o’clock and the night was only getting darker. I leaned quietly against the stone wall, so cold against my back, so unfamiliar in texture. I doubted anyone had ever leaned her before, the stone felt virgin of human contact, unaccustomed to the heat and rhythmic breathing. Lightning struck. The floor fell. A window shattered. The woman in black did not move, still looking at the sky as the roof caved in and she had a clear view of the stars. The walls collapsed around us, and instantly disintegrated into the earth. Her arms still shook slightly and her knuckles tensed whiter. I had no where to lean and nearly fell over. I steadied myself and stood with my arms crossed over my chest still watching. The woman didn’t seem surprised and the change in her environment. Now she kneeled in the night, surrounded only by the blanket of darkness and the winking of stars above. Her eyes closed a moment and when she opened them she glanced briefly at me, but seemed to be expecting my presence. Her eyes stayed on mine, and her gaze was calm but sad. I wanted to move toward her but could not lift my feet. I unclasped my arms from across my chest and held my hands at my side. Her arms still shook, but mine just rested, motionless. She slowly rose, her eyes still on mine, and came towards me. The woman in black stood before me and the breeze that lifted through the valley caught our hair and blew it in circles, mingling her blonde curls with mine. I smiled at her. She just looked. It was her turn to study my face. I swallowed. I tried to reach out for her but her body was not there. She nodded at me and I understood her worry lines that creased her face. She smiled. I lowered my arms. And smiled back.

One Page #31

A lobsterman in worn yellow rubber coveralls walked down the pier towards his boat. The sun had not yet risen and the waters were calm, reflecting the moon that danced in the ripples. The stars still shone above and he looked up once, staring, as if he had never really looked at the sky before. He steadied himself with one hand against a weatherworn pole that had withstood many storms, floods, hurricanes, and seagulls. He heard a few other men preparing their boats, pulling lines, rearranging nets. And then silence. The lobsterman walked to the end of the pier and sat on the edge with his legs dangling over. This he had never done either. He saw his boat a hundred feet away, floating, waiting, bobbing gently up and down. But he did not move towards it. He could feel the oars of this dinghy in his hands so rough from rowing and hauling and shelling. He lifted one hand to his face and felt the salt-laden beard dripping with the early morning fog so damp against his skin and pooling in droplets on the folds of his coveralls. He rubbed his eyes, blinked, and looked again out to sea. He could see the open ocean beyond the cove and the small scattered islands and the lighthouse that stood white in the moonlight. The lobsterman breathed in and out slowly, savoring the salt air, and wondered why. His father was dead and lay in his grave a mile away and six feet down. His father had been buried wrapped in a fishing net. He smelled like rotten fish and warm salt air. He smelled like the ocean. The lobsterman had inherited his father’s boat. He had grown up on its decks, and sailed around the islands thousands of times, every morning before the sun rose. But he had never wondered why. His friends were lobsterman, and his friend’s wives were friends with his wife, and they all smelled like the ocean, the salt so deeply imbedded in the wrinkles of their skin and soaked behind their eyes and in every strand of their hair. He didn’t think that any of them wondered why. It just was. The boats came in and out with the tide and he knew the moon’s reflection better than the shadows cast by the sun and the ring on his finger turned green with the constant dunking into the sea. The lobsterman flicked an abandoned mussel shell into the gently waves and it floated a moment bobbing up and down before sinking and disappearing into the green. The weatherman said it would rain today. He looked up and saw the beginnings of clouds forming. He wondered whether the clouds were salty too. The lobsterman stood up and took off his yellow coveralls and removed the green rubber boots. He padded back down the pier in his thick wool socks and walked home to his bed and his wife.

One Page #30

I am not quite clear. The shadow passed through my arm, not over my arm. It felt cold and sent a chill up to my shoulder. I looked back, thinking I might see what it was. But it was gone. I was in shadow. The trees were dripping on my head, falling through my body to the ground where they puddle and spread out and away as if scared of being to close to my feet. My feet were rooted far into the ground below the gravel and the dirt and the dark dampness far below. The cold traveled up and met my heart and my head and forced my eyes closed. My fingers were unsteady, shaking a bit. When someone walked by, so purposeful and determined, she didn’t seem me even though she passed inches away from my rooted body. Her eyes were focused forward only, glancing occasionally at the ground to make sure that she didn’t misstep. I thought maybe she would trip and fall into me so that I could see whether she would fall through me or into my chest hands first. But she didn’t trip or fall into me, but passed by arms swinging. I bird overhead watched her as well, maybe hoping for a spare crumb from the bagel in her hand, or maybe protecting a nest in the branches far above. Neither of us moved as she walked by, and soon she had disappeared out from under the line of trees and into the sun. A small child toddled along near me, poked my knee, and wandered on. Her finger met my pant leg and I felt the pressure on my kneecap and into the bones and tendons like a quick shock to my nerves. My nerves. I was shaking. The child hid behind a tree and peaked out to look at me once before disappearing again. The mother raced by. I knew she was the mother because the child, even though she was only a couple of years old, looked exactly like the mother. It was in the eyes. The mother didn’t see me and nearly passed over me. But she didn’t notice, arms flailing, looking for her girl in the polka dot dress holding a worn brown teddy so scruffy and soft. I was shaking. My feet were rooted. The cobblestones rumbled. A truck passed and then all was quiet again. Leaves fluttered down from the trees, silently, like ghosts falling to the ground and settling. With a gust of wind they lifted and swirled around my legs and then out into the street. They passed through me. Only the child with the brown teddy had seen me, touched me, looked back as if to make sure I was still there, to make sure I was real. I was real. And I was shaking. The air was perfumed with fall as if the leaves took on a scent when they turned from green to red or orange or brown. The air brushed against my cheek as if it were a hand caressing. I was still shaking.

One Page #29

Shamed into the salt flats that radiated gold and blue like a thorn in my side so sharp. Sun fades and my arms are cold. Belly sticking out and falls into the sea carried away by the waves on whales backs and fishy brine. Sea eagles circle overhead cawing to the fish below as a warning so useless. Rocks protrude from the waves angled pointy to the sky providing perches for the gulls and sea lions that don’t get along and bark at each other mouths wide open catching the salt air on their tongues and deep into their throats. Pastures of blue waves turning gray and green with white caps blowing like wheat dancing in the wind. Spry kites. Rainbows against the sky so gray now with the coming storm. Clouds reaching high into heaven standing so tall and proud bringing darkness like a blanket in behind them. Blanket ripples. Sends me into shadow. Goosebumps leaping. Hairs on end bristling. You walk up behind me and your faint shadow merges with mine. Arms around. Skin settles and smoothes. Our shadow disappears with the darkening sky. We back away from the waves that tickle our toes. Waves crying out in urgency. Seals and gulls disappear, falling into the sea, leaping into the sky and away like specks then gone. We stand like a rock into the wind impenetrable. Skin like bark reflecting the weather. Clouds cover the blue and sea turns to gray almost black with white foaming in anger. Boiling. We turn to leave arms still wrapped around each other, our chests sheltered from the wind. Our shoulders taking it all in, hair flapping. We fall in the sand that blows and stings our ankles. With a glance we run through dried seaweed and hollow crab shells empty and abandoned. I don’t know what a palindrome is. But the saints are knocking around in my skull wanting in. And there is a crow slowly eating my eyes out. If I grew horns I would wear a crown so that you would never know. And it would be decorated with rubies and sapphires and sharp as a knife in case I needed protection. The moon reflects off the gold. It is so shinny that if I held the crown in my hands I could see whether there was anything in my teeth, even in the moonlight. But I won’t take it off my head. Otherwise you might see my horns. And run away. Scared. Because the wind is picking up and the sea is rolling and we haven’t reached the house yet but I see it up ahead coming closer. The rain has started and it has soaked through my shirt. My goosebumps are back. Ten more steps and we grab hands to hold each other down and we reach the screen door that bangs several times as we race through. Thunder is grumbling now with my tummy rumbling and I towel off, and towel you off, and we shiver together.

One Page #28

Are you praying for rain little girl? The old woman with the crinkled eyes leaned over the girl in the spotted browning dress. The girl was weeding in her garden of herbs but looking more at the sky than the dirt falling between her fingers. The clouds were filling in, diminishing the blue and darkening the earth. The girl looked up at the old woman with curiosity and a little bit of fear. She had never seen this old woman before, and she hadn’t heard her come up from behind. The woman still bent over the little girl, sending the girls blonde curls into the shade. The girl smiled and said yes, she was praying silently for rain so that she wouldn’t have to water her garden but could let God water it for her. The old woman smiled and said that that was what God did best, water little girls’ gardens. The girl looked confused at this statement, so she went back to her weeding with reinvigorated force flinging unwanted weeds into a pile that grew into a mound and then a small mountain. The old woman stood up straight and the blonde curls danced back into the sun again. The woman looked at the sky and prayed for sun to guide her way home. She was miles from home, and lost with no food or water for many hours. She looked back at the girl whose arms were now covered in dirt. She prayed that the girl would offer her water and she prayed that the girl would stand up and talk to her the way little girls were supposed to. The girl stopped weeding and stood up, but did not look at the old woman and did not offer the old woman water. Instead she brushed off her arms and hands and looked again at the sky. She saw a giraffe parading across the sky with a small mouse in tow, both eating from the trees that leaned in and blocked their path. The blue diminished and disappeared and small drops began to fall. The girl smiled as they plopped onto her cheeks and moistened her lips to a shiny red, washing away the dirt that had clouded her face. The drops came with greater and greater speed and the girl twirled around a few times before waving and running up the front path and inside her door. The old woman stood and watched the girl disappear. Then she knelt next to the pile of weeds and systematically replanted each and every unwanted green stalk until the garden looked as it had when the old woman first arrived behind the little girl. The woman patted down the dirt, got up and brushed her hands off, and continued on down the sidewalk, humming an old tune. Her belly was full and her lips were saturated. Around the corner she came to her home and inside she found rest and silence. The little girl heard thunder and saw great flashes of lightning. Her cat purred at her feet. Tomorrow she would plant tomatoes.

One Page #27

The woman knelt at her bedside with her eyes squeezed shut and her hands clasped before her and resting on the soft flannel of her bed sheets. Her knees hurt from kneeling, but her devotions muted her pain. She spoke the same words over and over again in a low whisper, nearly silent so as not to wake her sister who lay sleeping on the other side of the bed. There was one candle that remained lit on the bedside table, and the woman could see it flickering behind her eyelids. She imagined the shadows dancing ravenously across the walls in the breeze that blew in through the open window. She had been praying for many long minutes, waiting for a sense of God, and connection, a feeling in her chest that she always felt when she prayed for long enough. But it hadn’t come yet and she momentarily worried that she would never feel it again. Her sister snored lightly. The woman tried to clear her mind, but she was distracted by the heavy beat of a bass coming from the house next door. She found her head was nodding in time with the beat and she immediately stilled it. Her hands were sweating and her knees ached into her thighs and calves. She winced in pain and her sister turned over in her sleep, facing her now. Her light breathing rhythmically fluttered the hair that fell over her face. The woman took a deep breath and focused all of her attention on her prayer. She was praying for guidance. She hadn’t prayed in about thirteen years, ever since he mother was killed while crossing the street. The woman had cried and screamed and raged against the walls, but never prayed. Eventually the pain of her loss began to dull. But now she didn’t know what else to do. She felt utterly scattered and confused. Her sister still attended the Episcopal church of their youth. But the woman despised the people there and had long since ceased going. Now she yearned. She was not sure what for. Her cat padded in through the open doorway and nudged into her side and her knees and her back, wanting to be pet. The bell around her neck jingled softly. Then there was silence. The breeze had stopped and her cat had lain down, and her sister had paused in her night travels. All was quiet. She heard from far above her the strain of a high voice, following one note and holding, suspended. The woman’s head raised, her eyes still closed, but relaxed. The note continued. Everything else disappeared. And then all was silent again. The woman’s chest felt lighter, like it had risen far above her body and held there with the note, suspended. Her clasped hands relaxed, and her knees no longer ached. Her sister turned over and the jingle of her cat’s bell faded into the other room. Rest.

One Page #26

She called herself Myrtle and she looked at me and laughed, spit flying into my face and resting in shiny pearls on my nose and cheeks. She turned away from me, and I was relieved because the look in her eye was dangerous. I knew she was about to propose something to me, and it would be something that I didn’t want to do. It always was. The light was fading as we stood on the beach. We had moved away from the water because the waves lapping against our feet sprung goose bumps on our arms and shivers along my spine. We were nearly warmed by the sun now, which had turned a crystal yellow orange surrounded by rays of red and deepening purple. My feet were dry now and my hands were deep in my pockets as I faced Myrtle’s back. Her neck was unusually long, and I always thought about this when I looked at her back. There was nothing else extraordinary about Myrtle, except for her neck. I had once touched it and she had looked me coldly in the eye. I never went near her again, even though sometimes I thought that she wanted me to. But only as a dare. I turned my back on her and looked towards the mountains in the distance that were rimmed in fog. I could see the first of the stars appearing. From behind I heard Myrtle turn around and then felt her hand on my shoulder. I spun around unnecessarily quickly and looked at her. Her eyes were soft and her mouth slightly open. A plane flew far overhead. It whispered a rumble in my ear. Myrtle’s hand was still on my shoulder and we were closer than we had ever really been. Sometimes when we went to scary movies she would grab my hand in fright, but we weren’t close then; her reach was only out of necessity. But now something had changed. The red light reflected in her eyes and glinted off her stud earrings. Through her tank top I could see her chest rise and fall with her breathing, but I didn’t look down, I only looked straight into her eyes. She looked away first and headed toward the pier from where we had come. There were kids and old men fishing off the pier, but they looked bored and tired, even from far off. I waited a moment and then followed her. We didn’t walk next to each other the whole way back. At the pier she hopped up the stairs and headed home without saying goodbye. My house was in the other direction. I felt like I had failed a test that I hadn’t signed up for. It was more of a pop quiz really, sprung upon me unknowingly. And I had failed. I wondered what the consequences would be, if I would fail the course or still be able to get an A later on if I worked hard enough. Myrtle wasn’t her real name, it was really Rose. But she was not a flower in my eyes.

One Page #25

Patrick looked out the kitchen window at the waves that crashed dramatically on the beach below. Rain was splashing against the windowpanes making pink pink sounds as if it were hail. But I was unseasonably warm out for spring and it felt more like an August thunderstorm. The wind was fierce and the petals were blowing off of the newly opened daffodils and Patrick knew that his mom would be upset when she went outside the next morning. His parents had already gone upstairs for bed and his sister was long asleep in her crib at their bedside. He was alone downstairs. The lights were mostly off except for one leading up the stairs and he leaned against the kitchen window wondering how strong the wind would have to be to shatter the glass and carry him away, across the ocean, to a new land. He would ride the wind faster than his bicycle would carry him, and even faster than the family’s station wagon would carry him. He would fly faster than he had every gone before and arrive at this new land to discover faeries and unicorns and dragonflies the size of his arm. But the wind wasn’t strong enough and the glass panes held their weight and he could only watch the storm rumble across the sky, leaving streaks of lightening it its wake and blowing sand from the beach across the road. Tomorrow he knew their car would sputter against the sands resistance and he could already hear the crunch of shells and pebbles beneath the tires. He always planned the night of storms to get up early the next morning and see the wreckage before anyone else was up, but he never did. Sleep held him captive. He hoped that this storm would bring in a pirate ship that would anchor itself off the shore and send rowboats to the beach. Pirate would pillage the town, wreak havoc among the neighbors, and meet Patrick, shake his hand, and haul him off into their rowboat and out to sea where he would live among the scraggily fellows who stole their food and gold and sent shivers up the spines of all the people in all the land. He would wear a bandana over his head and a black and white stripped shirt and he would say ‘ello matey with a casual but threatening voice. But he didn’t see any pirate ships. He heard the foghorn from the point just south of his house and around a few corners and inlets. But it was dulled by the crashing waves and the rain pounding the roof. He opened the window just wide enough to stick his head out and soak up the rain, he hair laying limp and plastered against his forehead and face was drenched with the skies tears that tasted salty just like his own. After a moment he retreated back inside and knew his mother would be upset with the wet kitchen floor.

One Page #24

Their home was powered by brilliant blue sails that puffed into the wind and blew them out across the seas toward the new world unexplored and uncharted. New waters promised new hope that would carry them into the newly unexpected. Turnips and porcupines and scratched porcelain bowls and shards of glass in blues and greens and browns littered the deck that was shaded by the billowing sail but speckled with light that bounced off the glass lanterns that swung back and forth, back and forth. One misstep led to a spill into the silky black waters and so they walked carefully down the deck, holding the railing that had splinters that broke off and stuck into the fingertips. The waves were lapping gently against the walls that had circular portholes and pictures of trains and forests and long winding staircases. The air was smoky from the grill that cooked dinner, fish they had caught earlier. They saw a dolphin leap through the air and a school of sardines race by as one unit, so comfortable together but strangers to each other. The sky was fading into purple and orange and the sails caught the light and trembled in the breeze. The mast creaked and the floors creaked and tilted gently from side to side. They flopped about in their sandals; flip flop against the polished deck. Their cat crawled sneakily around the open door that swung in the breeze, hinges also creaking, door rocking methodically. They saw seagulls cawing and ravens leftover from dreams years ago and a saber tooth tiger and even a Viking with a pointed-horned hat and silver chest plates that caught the glint of the sun that was just disappearing under the horizon, sinking so liquidly into a melted puddle of colors mingling. They saw cliffs, but only in their imaginations, dreaming of land and solidarity and trees that shaded them from the brightness, and beaches that left sand in every crevice of their bodies and bananas ripe and falling from the trees into their laps where bowls of yogurt sat just waiting for the tender fruit so sweet, almost caramelized from the sun. But land was many miles behind them and in front, since they were always moving forward, there was only water littered with sparkling diamonds and bubbles of white in the choppy air. Shorts were to revealing now and hats were no longer needed and they settled into the cabin with goblets of brandy because that was all they had left and they ate grilled fish, picking out the bones from between their teeth and crackers that were soggy and limp and no longer crunched but smooshed. One smelled lavender and the other smelled chamomile and they both thought of bricks piled into walls and roofs that housed chimneys with smoke billowing.

One Page #23

Paula screamed at the girl across the counter, and then blushed and felt terrible. She apologized over and over again, saying she didn’t know what came over her. But she knew. She just pretended to herself and everyone else that she didn’t. It had been a long week and most things had gone badly and the sky felt black and like it was pressing down on her from above like God laying his great hand on her head and squishing her into the floor. She didn’t believe in God, but that was what it felt like anyway. If Paula did believe in God, it wouldn’t be a man, and he wouldn’t have a hand, and he wouldn’t be squishing her but lifting her up, giving her a hand and a moment of forgiveness. But in this moment all she felt was a great weight and all she saw was a dimming world that glimmered and faded into her skull so thick with mothballs and smelling of salt. The girl across the counter looked at her wide-eyed, not knowing what to make of the crazy screaming and the raging fists and the trembling hairs on the top of the woman’s head. Paula wanted to faint, only for a moment of relief, a pause that would allow her to think and let go and possibly shed the weight that burdened her. She thought of cacti in the desert and she thought of paper bags that crumpled and she thought of lentil stew simmering on the stove with tomatoes and herbs and onions. She looked at the woman behind the counter, blushed more deeply, and stepped out of line and headed for the door. People stared at her and a little girl in a pink tutu reached out a hand towards her and a dog watched her with woeful eyes through the front door. The dog moved when she opened the door, standing aside as if afraid, and she felt the sun hit her face with a force that almost made her take a step back, but she moved forward and closed her eyes a moment as she walked. When she opened them she was free of the stares and the pitying glances and the embarrassment and she looked for a way out. She wanted root beer, and a wedge of lime, and a strong shot or two of tequila, even though she didn’t drink any longer and hadn’t for years. It interfered with her medication. She fingered the small oval orange pills in her pocket that she brought with her everywhere in case she needed them. She took one now, swallowing without water. She thought of the time she had been caught in a rainstorm far from home and the orange pills in her pocket had disintegrated and stained her shorts orange. She had needed one then, but they were gone and she wondered if she sucked at her shorts pockets whether she would get any of the relief the pills offered or whether she would only end up with a mouthful of fuzz and lint.

One Page #22

He aligned his book so that the sun slanted diagonally across the page. It was so bright that he could only read the shaded side of the page but reading those words, half cut off and mottled, he was reading a poem of mismatched and undirected phrases. Cassandra was jumping through red hoops of fallen leaves towards Bethlehem that was divided by lightning in the early morning sky of purple shirts and olives soaked in oil and sage. He closed the book and rested it between his chest and his arms, which he crossed over the book, clasping his elbows against the chill that was settling into the air after the storm that had raced through the night, rattling the windows and soaking the chair, which he had forgotten to bring in from his front porch. It was sunny now but clouds still passed meanderingly overhead sending him into shade and then sun and then shade again. When the sun didn’t reappear he took his book inside and put water on for tea. The light was dulling and lazy and when he opened the window that had been shut tightly to keep the rain out he smelled the gardenias and rosehips that were splashed across the side yard between his house and his neighbor’s house. Their house had just been painted a shocking pink with yellow trim and he had closed his blinds for the first few days as the paint dried to shelter his eyes from the glare that bounced off the nearly florescent walls. But he had slowly grown used to the pink and even liked the yellow trim so his shades stayed open now and he watered his plants by leaning out the window. Sometimes his neighbor Ron leaned out his window and they chatted about the weather or the Red Sox game (even though neither watched the games, the just read the newspaper and pretended that they had because that is what men were supposed to do). But today Ron wasn’t around and his plants didn’t need watering and the teakettle was boiling into a piercing whistle that brought him away from the window and into the kitchen for his tea. He had given up drinking coffee the week before and was still suffering the headaches that tea didn’t abate, and he missed the smell of the brew early in the morning that filtered through the house and made it feel like a home instead of just three rooms that he resided in. He poured the water over the mint teabag and the scent permeated the air around him and he thought briefly of England where he had lived years ago in the countryside and grown a selection of mint plants for no reason aside from the fact that he loved the scent. He drank coffee then and never made mint tea, but gave away the leaves to friends that did. Now he missed those plants, and the rosehips were no replacement.

The Accident

She had been miserable, but the days had passed and now her elbows bent and her knees bent and her skin was healing over. There were patches of scabs still that she tried to resist picking at, and she watched the skin change colors as the bruises deepened and then faded. She got out of bed for the first time aside from brief trips to the bathroom in about a week and her legs felt weak and shook a little as she stood. But the tremor disappeared as she walked around the room. She was tired of her view from the bed and she stood by the window for several moments looking out over the trees. She could just see the ocean through the branches since the leaves had started to fall. She loved winter because it changed her view entirely and she almost had a full view of the beach a few blocks away. But in the spring when the trees leafed out she lost her view and could hardly even see the sky as it was sheltered by the maple tree right outside of her window. Standing wasn’t comfortable so she went into the kitchen to make tea.

Her friend had been coming over every day to cook and help her to the bathroom. But she had rung her friend this morning and said she could take care of herself now. She didn’t like to ask for help, but it had been necessary. She had ignored the mail in hopes of not thinking about the legal ramifications of the previous week, but she could pretend no longer. Denial had served her throughout the week though, except in her dreams where she relived the accident over and over again. She hardly remembered what had happened now though. She remembered a man with a full beard and piercing olive green eyes. She remembered metal scraping and the flicker of flames out of the corner of her eye. And she remembered the view of the trees from upside down, and the surprise at how foreign the world looked from a different angle.

She had made the front page of the newspaper and had received cards and flowers and small gifts that remained unwrapped on the kitchen table. Her car had been totaled and the bearded man’s truck had burst into flames, but he had remained miraculously unscathed. But the caged bird in his backseat that was on the way to the vet had gone up in flames with the truck and the man had repeated over and over again the last caw he had heard from the colorful toucan. He cried about his bird, but not about his truck. He said a deer had leapt into the road and his brakes had screamed into the pavement. She didn’t remember a deer. He had sent her a gift but it was with the others. She didn’t want to open it. She had lost nothing important in her car, but her palms were shredded and the bruise around her eye looked like the result of an abusive relationship. She thought of the toucan and wondered whether the colors of its feathers looked like dancing flames. She hoped it had died quickly, instead of smoldering slowly trapped behind bars.

The bearded man was supposed to visit her today. She knew he felt guilty that she had been so beat up and he hadn’t. But she was glad that he hadn’t gone up in flames as well, a man and his bird burning together, skin and feathers melting into oblivion. She wondered what burning feathers smelled like, and if it was anything like burning hair which she had discovered the smell of when she tried to straighten her hair with an iron when she was about seven years old. That had been a failed experiment. Her mom had screamed at her, and then took scissors to her head and cut off all of her hair until there was only an inch left. She had kept her hair short ever since to spite her mother since she knew her mother envisioned having a beautiful daughter with long curly hair and graceful hands that stroked the pearly white piano keys. She never learned to play the piano and her hands were not graceful.

Her knees buckled and she hobbled over to the kitchen table and sat down. The room was cold and she hugged herself with her arms wrapped around her shoulders for a moment. She looked at the gifts on the table and moved them aside. She lay her head down on her arms and fingered the bristle of her hair that was growing long enough to flop over instead of standing straight up. The kitchen looked larger from her horizontal perspective and the fridge seemed so far away. But with the grumble of her stomach she rose and looked for the peanut butter. She made a sandwich with honey and raisins and brought it back to her bed to eat. Her bed felt safe and familiar whereas the rest of her apartment felt oddly distant and cold. Her bedroom was bright and sunny compared to the dark kitchen, and felt warmer as she climbed into bed. She could feel the stretch of new skin across her knees and elbows and she gently fingered the bruises to see if they still hurt. They did, but less than they had before.

Her phone rang and it was the bearded man whose name she couldn’t remember, even after he said it again over the phone. He asked when a good time to visit would be, and she couldn’t think of any good time, but said early afternoon would work. She gave him directions and hung up. She finished her sandwich and lay back against the pillows watching the leaves flutter in the late fall breeze. She pulled the covers up to her chin and dosed off. She dreamt of a camel with pearls around his neck and water flowing out of his mouth. She was drinking the water and splashing it over her face. She could feel the salt crystals of her sweat flow off of her chin and into the sand that was hot from the sun. When she awoke her hair and shirt were damp from sweat. She smoothed her hair back and thought about the view of trees from upside down. She heard a crow outside but by the time she got to the window it had flown away.

She slowly dressed and rinsed her face in preparation for the bearded man’s visit. He had seemed nice over the phone, but she was nervous about having company, especially since she still looked so battered. He arrived with flowers in his hand, and she accepted them with slightly raised eyebrows. She offered him a chair and a cup of tea which he accepted, tilting the chair at an angle to the table so he could rest an ankle on his knee. His eyes were smiling and kind, but also full of sympathy. He asked how she was doing. She was momentarily distracted by trying to remember his name, and then answered that she was fine. She sat down across the table from him and leaned on her elbows with her mug of mint tea in her hands. The sharp scent filled her nostrils as she breathed in deeply, and her face felt damp from the steam. She apologized for the loss of his bird. He looked down at his lap for a moment and then back at her face and said thank you. His smiling eyes faded into sadness and remembrance. They talked about the accident, and he filled her in on the details that she didn’t remember. But their conversation was factual and lacked emotion as if they were already too distanced from it to even remember that they were both there. It was as if they were talking about an accident that they had read about in the newspaper, something that had happened to someone else. It felt easier that way. When she asked him about his interest in birds he became animated and spoke with gestures, and leaning in towards her, she could smell mint on his breath from the tea. His eyes were smiling again.

He left a little while later. She was glad he had come by after all. After he left she put the flowers he had brought, pansies that looked freshly cut from his garden, into a small ceramic vase and brought them into her bedroom where they fit nicely on her bedside table. She leaned over the smell them, but they hardly had a scent. She thought about the bearded man’s smiling eyes, and wondered if her eyes ever looked like that, so shiny and sparkling, as if they knew something that no one else knew, a hidden well of happiness.

She lay down on her bed facing the bouquet of pansies and studied their dark centers that flared out into brilliant color. She closed her eyes and quickly fell asleep. She dreamt of the crow that had cawed outside of her window. It was sitting on a branch watching over her. But after a moment it dipped into the air and as it flew away its inky black feathers turned to shocking reds and oranges and blues and it cawed like the toucan had in the burning truck, but with less desperation. It circled several times through the sky above her bedroom and then flew off into the distance until it was nothing but a black dot against the graying horizon.

Flying far far away.....

Today a slacker...tomorrow a slacker...next week, back in business, so don't give up on me!