Circling

1

I look at my face in the mirror and trace a finger along the dark bags under my eyes. My fingers reach towards the pot of lotion, but I pause, hand wavering slightly in the air, barely brushing against the lid. I sigh, the air cold in my lungs, and pull my hand back to my face to run my hands through my hair. Dry. Brittle. The dark roots have grown out, pushing away the now dull blonde. It brushes my shoulders now, far longer than it’s been in years. I twist the ends between my fingers, letting what breaks off fall onto the messy surface of the vanity.

I stare at my face for a little longer, running fingers over my face and hair, before attempting to sift through the debris littering the vanity to find a hairbrush. Tubes of cosmetics click and clatter as they get shuffled around, tumbling over themselves, some falling to the floor and rolling away into dark corners to be forever forgotten. They were once neat, tidy, kept in plastic boxes, organized by eyes, face, lips. Curlers separated from brushes separated from sponges now mingling on a lipstick and powder stained surface and joined by pieces of hair.

I quickly give up on the search for the brush and drag myself off of the plush stool, willing my shaking legs to hold my weight. When I am confident that I won’t fall, I wrap a black silk robe around my bare body and trudge out of my room, down the hall to the bathroom for a shower.

There’s no way to avoid passing by Waylyn’s room. The door is slightly ajar, but it’s too dark for me to see any more than blurry shadows inside of it. Not that it matters anymore. I’ve been in there often enough to memorize the titles of all fifty books on the shelves, the feel of the once-plush carpet, the exact shade of the faded curtains. All the components of Waylyn’s life that I glossed over while she was still here.

I rest a hand on the doorframe for… a minute? an hour? an indeterminate amount of time before taking it away and continuing to shuffle down the dark hallway to the shower I didn’t want but desperately needed.

2

It’s quiet. Far too quiet; the kind of quiet that lets you hear your own breathing and your own heartbeat and your own thoughts. The kind of quiet that hurts because it lets you know that maybe you’re not alive, maybe you’re just surviving. I hear my breath begin to whistle obnoxiously, the first symptom of the coughs that will soon wrack my body again. It’s always followed by the odd coldness that seeps from the lungs into the chest and throat, settling into all the crooks and crannies, a reminder of all the damage that has already been done, a warning of what’s to come.

I’m lucky. There’s no blood this time. Only the pain lingering in my lungs, my shoulders, my throat, my ears as the resounding silence is shattered. Pain in my knees as they press against cold bathroom tiles next to the toilet that I dragged myself to when the whistling started again. As my breathing settles back into itself, I’m surprised that my legs hold me, that they can carry me forward, that they don’t buckle as I pass by Waylyn’s room where it sits quietly collecting dust instead of new novels.

3

Rain sloshes and slaps against the window pane, the cold rolling off of the glass contrasting with the heat of the mug wrapped in my hands. Steam curls out of my hot chocolate, mingling with the condensation gathering on the window above the sink, rolling down the glass in a race with the raindrops. I glance down at the growing tower of dishes, examining the work that needs to be done, and look back to the window, waiting for the lightning. I lick my lips, feeling the cracks stinging across the thin skin as my hands vibrate around my mug. I look down at the mug, watch the ripples running across the surface as if a fish or turtle or tiny human is swimming under the top, foamy layer, darting up to gulp air into their miniscule lungs before diving back into sugary depths.

Thunder rolls across the forest stretching away from my overgrown yard, and it yanks my eyes out of the hot chocolate and into the rain-blurred horizon. I count ten seconds before lightning sprawls across the sky, burning its image into my mind. Zig-zagging, like neurons and veins and branches on trees cast into sharp relief by another force of nature.

I swallow hard, feeling the effort of it all, and take a swig of hot chocolate. It runs down my throat, heating up the ungodly cold patches, scaring away the whistling.

Thunder booms in the sky again. It’s only seven seconds this time. Waylyn always said that I do it wrong, that I should count the time between the lightning and the thunder not the thunder and the lightning. Now the argument sits untouched; there’s no one left to carry it on.

I take another sip of hot chocolate before letting it slop over the dishes in the sink that the mug is now joining and wander back to my bedroom.

4

    The grass is damp under my toes, dewy in the morning light. I tilt my head upwards, looking up at the trees towering above me. A light breeze ruffles my nightgown, causing it to billow out around my knees. I try not to pay attention to the way it exposes my legs, the way it shows off my thighs when I take another step towards the trees, my neck beginning to ache from being bent towards the heavens.

    The voice of a bird of prey is always distinct. Unmistakable. Glorious. Shivers cascade down my spine, my head swiveling to watch the falcon as it soars overhead, away from the forest and towards the fields.

    The pre-dawn light is casting an eerie, greyish glow to the landscape, making it hard to see clearly. My feet are cold, becoming numb to all sensation, yet they hold me even when I pause to cough, my whole body being dragged into the effort. Waylyn loved falcons and following a falcon to the ends of the Earth was one of her goals. I just want to see how far I can follow this one before it leaves me for unknowable destinations; I am just a specter floating in Waylyn’s shadow, hoping to accomplish more than stagnancy.

    A no trespassing sign greets me at the edge of the field, a barbed-wire fence stretching from either side of it into oblivion, carefully guarding the miles of wheat waving at me from beyond its everlasting protection. Far above, the falcon is beginning to circle, homing in on a life that would soon be sacrificed. My lip curls at the thought of the death soon to follow, but Waylyn would’ve accepted this as just another moment in life. Another moment to embrace the world with open arms and recognize that you are, in fact, alive and not simply surviving. That this is your world.

    I wrap my fingers around the wire, feeling the cuts spread across my hands, the blood slicking between my fingers. In the horizon, the sun is hauling itself into the sky. In the midground, the falcon is swooping. In the foreground, I am beginning to run, a gunshot racing me to the forest.

5

    It’s a calm day, with the birds hopping around the feeder, and the squirrels chirping in the distance. I swing lazily in the porch swing, my toes brushing against the smooth wood below me, a steaming mug of coffee in my hands, stinging my cuts slightly under the bandages.

    I watch an old blue truck rumble down the dirt road, creating a storm behind it, disrupting what has recently settled into place. A farmer is in it, a shotgun his only passenger. He doesn’t look my way as he rumbles by, and perhaps he has forgotten I am supposed to be here. I take another sip of my coffee, letting its bitterness wash over me.

    The windchimes hanging off the porch only resume when the old blue truck can no longer be heard, assuring that the machine will not drown them out. Waylyn insisted on buying it, claiming that a little bit of music is all a person needs sometimes. She said it was the best medicine, but I can still feel the cracks running within me, the way they stain my face, pull at my lips, sting on my hands under a film of fresh gauze.

    I hear another familiar rumble, quieter than the old truck but a horseman of the apocalypse just the same. I take one last sip of my coffee, pour the remnants over the railing, and pull open the front door.

                            6

    I don’t know how many times I’ve counted the dots in the ceiling above my couch, but I know that there are about 1,688,752 dots in the space directly above my head when my feet are facing the window. With a sigh I lift my arm again, remote in hand, but the tv is only offering static.

    I lift my body from the couch and stretch, feeling every crack my joints make as my body snaps itself back into place. I already made coffee this morning, so all I need to do is pour myself another mug and hope that this one works.

    The front door screeches when I open it, the first time it’s ever protested my use of it. I stop and push it back and forth several more times, but each time it still screams its disapproval, making each plea more heart-wrenching than the last. With a shrug I close it behind me and sit on the porch swing. The door, like the dishes, will be a problem for another day.

    “Hey! It’s been a while since I‘ve seen you around.”

    I freeze, my mug lifted to my lips. At the end of the driveway is a small, white van. A man in blue stands a few feet from it, waving at me with a handful of envelopes that flutter meekly under his enthusiasm.

    “Do you want me to put these in the box, or just hand them to you?” the man asks.

    I finish my sip of coffee and stand, walking down the porch steps and stopping in front of him, my hand extended.

    “Alright,” he says, placing a stack of letters in my hand. “You never were much of a talker.”

    I smile, my lips cracking. I let a trickle of blood run freely down my chin. The man hesitates but smiles back at me. His eyes flicker to my hands, and I see his smile falter again for a moment.

    “Thank you,” I say, taking note of the feeling of sandpaper grating against my throat, wondering if this was any better than the aching coughs and searing cold.

    “You’re welcome, Waylyn,” the man says.

    Within a few moments, the man is back in his van. With a wave, he is gone. I fan myself with the envelopes before ripping them in half and letting them flutter away on the mid-morning breeze. Somewhere above me, a falcon is crying.