Death’s door

Last one through holds the door.

When Mrs. Jones had said it, it had made perfect sense. She hadn’t elaborated and honestly she made it seem like the logic was unquestionable. To be fair, she was in a hurry. Her kids had been sick, not so long ago, and she was in a rush to get to them. Still, it would have been nice if she had offered a little clarification.

See our town was small. Small even by local standards. It sat just north of an old oxbow bend in the river that long ago had shrunken from lake to pond. When the lake had started drying up so had the towns life blood. If no one came to Bow Lake to grind wheat, then no one was around to fish trout, or buy a slice of pie.

Within five years Bow Lake had become so empty that when a stranger did turn up they were met with suspicion, not welcome. All they seemed to do was drag themselves to our town to die. Some carried scabies and other less curable maladies. One poor soul coughed themselves to death in the back row of the school house during a harvest moon. If we had been in the classroom instead of the fields perhaps he could have been helped.

In the fall of 1867 a fever swept through what was left of the town like wild fire. It laid waste to Bow Lake. The elderly fell first. Then the children. Finally, the doctor left, fearful for his family’s life. Empty houses and darkened doorsteps proclaimed the illness as winner.

It was all we could do to keep the dead from the living, but I stayed and helped where I could. Even after mother sent Susie to Aunt Loraine’s.

Reverend Thompson blessed ground to expand the graveyard, but there wasn’t even time to complete the fence before it was in use. Dutifully I fed and held the hands of those who remained. Till it was my turn to hold on as long as I could. Just wishing for the pain to stop. For “this too shall pass” to be made real, but my wishes were as useless as any of my other efforts. If I try, I can remember hands hotter than my fever tending to me. The moaning sounds of the dying around me in the half light.

The next day, as I watched with an unexpected level of detachment, they laid me upon the burying grounds but not in them, everyone was too sick by then. After that the only people who even got close to the the cemetery were the ones who dragged themselves as close as they could before collapsing. In hopes the hallowed ground would grant them sanctuary. I always assumed.

I watched… Those poor souls did not linger long. I tried to pull them through the unfinished gate. To give them the words that Mrs. Jones gave me, but it never worked. I even tried to roam into the town during the daylight hours and tempt the dying to follow me, but it was a doomed attempt. The few who could move never saw me, and those who saw me never moved again.

I waited… The town withered away to nothing. No gravedigger came for the fallen and no one from the relay station checked on the suddenly silent telegraph line. It was as if Bow Lake had fallen off the map and not a single interested party asked why. The weeks trudged by till I lost count of the years. Still no one came to claim the ruined town for their own. Even once the evidence of the fever was ground down, by time and nature, into tainted soil no one put down roots.

I held the door… At first with all of the impatience of a person listening from the next room. I could imagine the joys on the other side of Death’s door, but I could never know if my loved ones waited for my tardy arrival. Then with resignation as I accepted my fate of conscripted sentry. Nothing from that side slid out and nothing from our side wondered in. Now with anticipatory glee.

On a whim I walked out of the cemetery one night and into the woods. It took time for a shadow to start leaking out of the door. Longer still for it to emerge fully fledged, a deeper darkness with an outline changeable like a swarm of bees that moved with the sound of sharp shears cutting fabric. But what was that to me, I had time in spades.

Now for the first time in over a century I do not know what will happen next. I can hear someone in the north woods and I can see the shadow swarm slithering in that direction. Some small part of me still worries over my decision to abandon Death’s door, but the louder hungrier part of myself cannot wait to rip it off it’s hinges.

Image is from the billion graves blog (https://legacy-blog.billiongraves.com/rescuing-abandoned-cemeteries/)

Forty, do your worst.

“I toast my childhood. Upon the alter of youth I offered my trust and hope. An innocent heart that yearned for magic never understood.

I toast my adolescence. Upon the alter of desire I wished for love, willing to sacrifice anything. A stubborn attitude that I fire tempered to opalescence.

I toast my twenties. Upon the alter of pride I poured my blood, sweat, and tears. A willful mind hungry for knowledge and thirsty for opportunities.

I toast my thirties. Upon the alter of maturity I laid bare my devotions to family and future. An unbridled truth devoid of illusions or niceties.

Forty, do your worst. I made my offerings with sheer determination and the power of my convictions. Now, I wait to see what gifts the Fates have dispersed.”

His soliloquy done the man lifted his drink in the air and gave a slight nod in the direction of the clock before throwing back his double. The sound of his glass meeting the wooden table reverberated through the hushed room like a door slamming shut. Slowly the sound rolled back in and the bar went back to normal. Except for the fact that one-by-one each patron caught the man’s eye in acknowledgement.

Birthdays are hard for everyone I guess.

All rights to the owner of the image, who I thank for making available online.

Someone else

I took a long hard appraising look in the mirror. It’s not The Persistence of Memory I tell myself, but it’s different in a hundred tiny ways. Stray strands of white or god-help-me-grey snake through my hair. Fine lines and dark circles surround my eyes in an outline much less flattering than kohl. I am sure it’s me, but if I look away quickly enough it could be someone else.

A woman whose pinched expression cannot hide the dimples in her smile or the annoyance written across her brow.

If I squint I can almost see the person she set out to become. Satisfied. Impactful. Happy. I wonder what would make her laugh hard enough throw her head back and shed a joyful tear. I guess at what could give her pause, make her sit with a moment and let it grow. I theorize what might be her biggest regret. Wondering if she carries it on her sleeve or locked away in her heart.

I hope for that woman, the one who cannot be me.

I want her to know contentment and comfort… but she only smiles when someone is looking.

All rights to ShutterStock

Fragile truth

Trish held her truth by the tips of her fingers at arms length. It was the kind of truth that could not endure close analysis or bright light.

She had decided long ago that the fog of a half remembered dream was the only way she would let herself think about it. Clarity was a luxury she could not afford. So Trish stuck to the basics. Of course she had a home town, but she never used that name. Of course she had a family, but who needed to know about them. She just played the odds. Ten-to-one the pretty blonde only wants to talk about herself. Trish rarely lost.

It was the times when the truth found her unbidden that hit like a closed fist. A faint scent, a few notes from an old song, or even a tast could pull her backwards.

Which meant that Trish avoided a lot of places and activities. Sporting events were easy to skip who had the extra money for tickets anyway. Funerals were harder, but that uphill climb leveled off when she moved halfway across the country. Happy hours were the hardest to bow out on. To many workplace norms were associated with post-work commiseration, if you asked her. Bars were off limits though, unless she wanted to play “I can name that childhood trauma in three notes” just to get a little buzzed.

Dingy hole-in-the-wall dives were the worst. Stale toquilla soaked carpet, jukebox chart toppers, and the tang of desperation that flavored the smoky air were the hat trick of pain. No matter how many years had passed this combo could make her 12 and vulnerable again. Make heart race and eyes sting. So while refusing to participate in mandatory “voluntary” social interactions was tedious her sanity was worth it.

Trish felt the truth had mutated over the years. Gotten uglier with time. It was now her own portrait in the attic that mirrored the shade upon her soul. So she curled inward and worked harder to distance herself from it. Mr. Grey would have been proud of how well she kept her secret self, the true self, but every secret wants to be wants to be free.

For Trish all it took was a hot autumn day. With her meetings over for the day and the mercury hovering dangerously close to the 90F mark she took off her blazer. She remembered hanging it innocently off the back of her office chair. The keyhole at the back of her blouse was all it took. Jen in HR had noticed the scars and it just snowballed from there. By the time the first interview was complete Jen was insisting that the company call in Occupational therapy and the cops. Instead Trish handed in her resignation letter, effectively immediately.

The truth felt like a lie the way Trish kept it. As if hiding it in the dark had tarnished in such a way that sooty black smears were left on her whenever it was brought it into the light. Still it was hers… and no one was going to co-opt it or take it away.

the ability to smile

My name is not important, and honestly neither is my education. I was hired for my people skills. That’s right, all that wonderful student loan debt bought me is a framed piece of paper that doesn’t mean shit according to my job description.

But what I do have is thick skin and the ability to smile even while dealing with angry unreasonable people. A skill I picked up while in the grad school trenches, and it serves me well. That and my innate ability to keep moving forward through sheer willpower and determination.

I work hard. I keep long hours, and I never shy away from responsibilities. Which translates to a never ending “to-do” list. Still I do my part and more, when I can.

All day long I absorb the negativity that leaks into conversations. It sticks to me. It makes me crave dark chocolates, hot showers, and large wine glasses at the end of each day. All in the attempt to soften the edge I am inching towards.

I reach across great divides to chart the path of compromise. The strain tears at my resolve and makes me question each word or turn of phrase I use. It calls into doubt true north on my internal compass. Still I keep moving forward unable to sound the retreat.

I even phrase my suggestions in ways that will make you wonder which of us thought of it first. Drawing a heavy line under the fact that I do not matter in this equation. I am the instrument used to fine tune and recalibrate. I am the means to an end. A solution as essential as breathing, and just as easily taken for granted.

I’m in customer success… You hiring?

As seen on https://www.retently.com/blog/next-employee-customer-success-manager/

An unfulfilled promise

The heavy humid night felt like an unfulfilled promise as the wind slapped against the nape of Nate’s neck. The summer sun had been draining the color and the life from his crunchy lawn for weeks now, but he could not bring himself to water it. Even in the convection oven of July that seemed an unnecessary luxury while fires raged to the north and west.

He could not stop himself from looking up though. Watching the blanketed sky sweep by on the long gusts, that stirred up the cicadas and sent the trees into a chorus of pleas for rain, how much was smoke and how much was cloud. Nate hoped that the scales were tipping in favor of clouds. Not just because the almond trees that ran like stubble over the hilly 20 acres Quentin had purchased two years ago were looking worse by the day, but mostly.

The dryness had everyone on edge. First responders, farmers, and banks all their eyes on the cost and the loss. A bottom line that only seemed to be getting more dire.

So, Nate couldn’t help himself from sending out a wordless call for help as the wind died down and everything sagged under the weight of 98% humidity. If his desperation could have been given a voice it might have said “please do not make the hard working suffer needlessly”. Maybe it would have just asked “why”.

Either way it deserved a response.

A Flawed Design

He was broken in a million ways. The small fissures overlapped and underlined the large cracks making him appear patterned. The tessellation was so complex that it was easier to assume the fractures had been created purposefully. That at its center, somehow, was the Fibonacci sequence or the Golden ratio. That it wasn’t a design flaw but instead a Flawed Design.

This, however, assumed that the universe was more than entropy made physical. That in this world the rules were adhered to and more than on exception. But in his experience, the logic which seemed to fuel the cosmos was barely even considered a suggestion. Strictly speaking.

The brokenness was what defined him. It decided his approach to life and served as the precedent all was measured against. Ultimately, it was the only reason he needed to never try again.

So he sat carefully with his fragility. No sharp edges allowed. No sudden movements encouraged. No risks deemed worthy of reward. The glass between him and living was shatter-proof as he opted to watch life happen to others.

Image from ShutterStock.

December mornings

The trees stretched bony hands towards a sun that never quite delivered. While all around her was the death rattle of winter. It was a cold stark beauty she thought, almost like a slab of marble, hard but still compelling. It brought a slight glint to her eyes in the early morning hour.

Looking up through the branches to the sky she felt a closeness with the off putting weather. It made people turn up their collars and hurry away. She had that effect sometimes too. People often found themselves with other places to be when she was around. It was just as well. Bren liked the solitude that could be found outside. It seemed more honest to her.

Outside there was little distraction, if one could look past the societal fingerprints that seemed to stand out against every surface. However, Bren liked to think that she could shut out that nonsense. She would sit in a moment watching a bird or tracking a cloud and never once flush with embarrassment.

It was time to blink reality back into focus though. Time to zoom out so the interesting shape in front of her could become a thing with solid lines again. She tensed against the thoughts that came racing in. They streamed by in watercolor sadness and angry heavy modem art lines.

It was always easier to not think. To just exist and worry about the minutes as they came, but there was something about the stillness of December mornings. It seemed to demand introspection and deep thoughts. A shiver rain down her spine that was less to do with the wind than the thoughts whistling through her mind. Bren pushed her hands deeper into her pockets wishing for a way to not look as anxious as she felt.

She turned back to the window glowing softly with warm white twinkle lights. Her eyes closed as she took a steadying breath. Okay she told herself, and she hoped she was right.

Reality is never kind

Egg on my face again, and I would have guessed that by now I wouldn’t mind.

But when you believe in the lie you live reality is never kind.

Cut it clean or it’ll never mend, this isn’t a wound time can bind.

Swallow your tears then… happiness isn’t yours to find.

A moment alone

It was the kind of day where the sun would only shine as it set, casting a pall over the riot of color in the trees. Even the chill which had crept in over night, bringing an anxious demeanor to the squirrels zigzagging over the lawn, could not breathe life into the day. It was as if the day had died. The fields filled with broken corn stalks and dried soy beans only added to the somber tone. Summer was long gone and even the bright patches of Fall could not hide that fact anymore.

She sat quietly with the gray light of the dead day and let her mind turn to horror movies, it was the season was it not. Would she feel more alive if a child walked out of the corn with bright blue eyes or a red ballon drifted by? She doubted it, but a part of her still waited for the goosebump shivers and startled scream as if it were a lifeline.

She was sure people thought her odd, not many walked in graveyards just because or stared at shadows till they took shape, but that wasn’t hers to deal with. That was the concern of others. She just wanted to enjoy the numbing void for awhile before they ruined it all.

Her fingers itched, all sticky and tacky, but it was the sirens that bothered her the most.

She had just wanted a moment alone.