From Scrap to Story in 500-800 Words

by essayan hart

death can subsist
in a thought

you are folding the laundry
fear over fear

each towel soft
and in its place

You have to be careful not to slip into the spaces. Between your own words. Between your own hands. I am lifting things, shifting them in space and time. These objects are soft and pliable. This appears trivial, but tonight I know better. Every step is deliberate. I am walking the tightrope between worlds.

Folding the laundry, checking the budget, keeping the body away from dreams.  This is my purpose now. I know myself at least this well.  The fade of your cackle, your well worn hands, and the increasing distance between your breath and a song, is a precipice I must navigate deftly.  If I slow, if I move too slowly, I will be paralyzed with fear.  If I move too quickly, I will shatter.  Mercury rolling and hiding beneath the floorboards. A grief turned poisonous. 

I don’t even know that you are dying. Not yet. The clockwork of my life has grown ancient and the wood pulls and groans. You are one seam. The last seam. I call you every three weeks asking the same questions. Where are you? Will you please say hello? What happened in December?  You don’t answer, and I don’t expect you to, despite my best efforts, I can feel the strain there. You are slipping out of the story, and like it or not, until now, it was still our story. Still our time. Never mine. Never my own. I had an accomplice.

I recognize now, the fatal flaw in our work. You kept tossing me in the air, into the depths, the ether. From here we soared, could touch sky and sea, feed and teach the stumbling center. When I fell, back to our tunnels, back to cold coffee and callouses, you kept the landing hard enough to keep me. To keep me. I was yours.  A fatal flaw.

Tonight, however, the mechanism must strain. This is still your orchestration. The wood will sing and buckle. I am enamoured of these moments. Things Fall Apart… wasn’t that a book? A song? A ritual? I should be reading Frannie and Zooey.  I should be talking to the dial tone.

In lieu of this, I am holding my lover, or the laundry, or an instrument.  She is breaking too, this love, her body betraying her until she is barely a child. I keep her from running headlong into walls. She laughs and hands me her shoes.  She sips water and demands more. She is always demanding more.  This is not her fault. This weather comes through her and I am transformed in an instant. From lover to mother, from mother to nurse, from nurse to clinician. When she returns to me I ask her what we are going to do, and she asks “about what?” 

Soon she slips away from me again, and I am left with these simple tasks. I do not dial the telephone. I do not have an accomplice. I have a tightrope now, and things must fall away. You cannot carry much.

death can subsist
in a thought

you are folding the laundry
fear over fear

each towel soft
and in its place

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