In Search of Warmth

I still remember how she squirmed, her body twisted and shaking. I hated seeing her in pain. I wished that I could absorb it, wished I could take it all away from her.

She was hurting and that hurt me.

When my sister Melodie finally succumbed to her illness, she was 19. It was sudden and at that time I hadn't thought of death as a sudden thing.

Melodie and I were 3 years apart, I was just 16 when she died. The day I lost my sister was the same day I lost my mother.

The years after Melodie died were filled with Mother hovering in and out of my life like a boat in the same water as me, never docking at the same port. I ignored her and she ignored me, I got by without her and she got by without me.

Melodie passed early in the afternoon, just before the sun could kiss the horizon. I was there with her when she finally gave in, there to see the light leave her eyes. Mother had hidden in that big empty house and let me be the one to care for Melodie in her last days, leaving me to be the only one to see how much the pain took its toll on her.

I had found Mother in a rocking chair on the front porch, a cigarette hanging loosely from her lips. We had both watched the sunset in silence, avoiding the spirit of death that still lingered in the hours after Melodie’s death. I wish I had asked her why she wasn't there for Melodie through her transition to death, why she had put all of this on my shoulders.

I wanted to ask her why she didn't feel anything anymore, why she hadn't helped me.

But mother had just smoked her cigarette, then another, then another, until the afternoon had turned to dusk.

I had sat there for hours just picking at the wood of the old porch stairs, my mind foggy and deathly quiet. I can still picture just how pink the clouds had been, how they had made my fingers appear to glow in the light of the setting sun.

“Mother?” I had asked, keeping my eyes on my hands. I couldn't look at her anymore, I had barely been able to look at her in the years that followed, in the days when she was sick, in her hospital bed, or casket. “Do you think it hurt?”

She had taken a moment to reply. The rocking chair quietly knocked on the wall behind her, a sound that haunts my dreams.

She had spoken through the smoke in her throat with a voice that did not shake with grief, that did not stutter or give away how she felt. Her voice had remained strong and clear, even when she faded with age. “If you want wings child, then you'll have to go through the pain of it.”

When I first heard those words I tucked them close to my heart.

Pain rewarded you with wings, and in death, you could fly.

When my mother sent me away to bed that night, just a hallway distance from Melodie’s room, I begged to know that pain. I prayed to whatever god would listen to make me worthy of wings.

I wanted to fly like my sister. I wanted to join her in the sky, in a palace in the clouds.

And when I didn't feel anything I began to drown in that feeling, turning me cold all over.

By 18, I had grown weary of the harsh northern winters. 

In Winter every part of me froze, in Winter the ice in my veins forced me into hiding. Mother was the one who hid and I did not hide. I ran from my former life once it was over, and I had never stopped running.

There was nothing left for me there, so I left the north in search of someplace warmer, leaving that house filled with ghosts to crumble into disrepair.

 Now I'm 23, chasing away the cold in a place that never snowed.

Mother had made me incapable of avoiding the pain, it was all around me, and I found that it had become my only constant.

When I looked for a job, I got one quickly. I knew exactly what I wanted to do.

I got hired by a retirement home in search of a caregiver within a week of moving to a new state in the south, and now I’ve worked there for nearly four years.

It was easy money, especially for someone who knew how to care for those in pain.

This was what I was made for, to guide the sick and pain-riddled toward eternal salvation, to a place where we all can fly.

I walked into work this morning with my head held high, the summer sun warming my ever-chilled skin.

I knew that today would be a good day, that I would be the one to help guide a spirit to true healing. I walk by the front desk, waving hello to the security guard and receptionist. They ask me how my night went and I lie to them and say it went well.

This morning would make up for that though, it always made a day brighter. I pressed the elevator button with enthusiasm, the chime of its opening door like heavenly silver bells.

I walked down the long hallway to Mr. Matthews's room with determination, knowing he was waiting to see me.

I cracked the door to his room open and peered inside. There lying in the morning sun was Mr. Matthews, his face twisted in pain even though he was asleep. The machines that surrounded him beeped, IVs punched holes in his arms, and tubes stuck out from his nose and under his shirt.

This was no way to live, no way to feel.

He reminded me of Melodie, his pain reminded me of Melodie.

I could take it all away, just like I did for my sister.

Just like I did for Mother.

I grabbed a pillow from the couch and held it up the same way I did that afternoon Melodie died. I was the only one who cared. I was the only one who ever cared. I had sat with Melodie as she withered away, and I had done the same with Mother, I had been the only one who visited Mr. Matthews.

I have the power to take the pain away and I am the only one who dares to do so.

I had given Melodie her wings, I had given so many others their wings after finding my purpose here.

Melodie and her mother had been too sick to fight, Mr. Matthews was the same.

I brought the pillow to his face and felt the cold melt away, a raging fire growing in my stomach and blazing a trail through my veins. His death was a sudden thing, just like all the others.

I wasn't cold anymore. I wasn't cold, because this was what I was made for.

I took his pain away.

I gave him wings so he could fly.