Sigh was created for DasFern Glas, a series of Mailchimp emails curated by Anna Mlasowsky. The email format is recreated below.
See original mailchimp here: https://mailchi.mp/4745128a2d1a/sigh
In moments of extreme stress, I close my eyes and imagine myself standing on the edge of a dock. No longer 30 years old, or a worker, or lover, or lonely, or wounded, or small, I am just in a body, using every sense to appreciate the surroundings. Barefoot, toes curling around the last plank, I touch the cool, dark line where water has dampened the wood. The dock rocks slightly, encouraging me. With sun on my back, the wind carries nearby scents and pushes me closer to the edge. I dive and the water embraces me. No breath. I open my eyes.
The word terminal did not enter the frame of our conversation, but the suggestion was there in the details, like an old painting where symbols stand in for ideologies - a dog, convex mirror, dying rose. The scene is set. An artist, mother, gardener (which is another kind of motherhood), homemaker, woman, giver.
Perhaps those stricken with the grief wail with such cacophony -
yell, kick, break, blow, cry out -
eject the primal noises of a babe -
to make enough noise to compensate the lost years of sound made by their love now gone.
I haven't allowed myself to think of their silence until now. And I do so quietly. With a dull pencil so it doesn't scratch while crossing the page. I write in the early morning, soon after waking, so my breath is still low and calm from sleep. My hand is clean and dry and glides smoothly on this white page.
But I still hear the pencil, and breath, and hand. And I am here. And you are not.
So alone, I spin.
So, alone, I spin.
I thought I had taken more notes. Things you had said, or done, or touched, or given me. Recipes for your Easter bread, or cabbage rolls. Crosswords you had filled out in perfect capital letters. I thought I had more of you to hold onto.
I was lying in my bed, letting my mind slip out of my body, across borders. Eyes closed, providing a familiar surface to project onto. The reels turned and I saw trees. Every sound a product of wind and water. Lapping the edges. I felt the walls around me lift.
I don’t even step into the cabin. Don’t take anything out of the car. My legs seek undulating grounds. My feet step heavily on dirt and twig, the soil softening as I approach the lake. I have to hop onto the dock, left anchored but unattached to the shore for winter. I stand on my island. Shoes off, so my feet can feel the heat in the planks. Scarf unwrapped, so my neck is exposed to the rays. I blink. Open and close, open and close, the perfect image remains. No separation. The waves never stop moving here. The sun rises and sets.