Her closet was jam packed with clothes to make an impact. She had worked hard on this closet. Who she was, and how she expressed herself was on each hanger and shelf. Elena picked out a dress and held it up to her form and stared into the mirror. This totally sucked. If she couldn’t go out, there seemed to be no point to all these clothes. Bullshit. She was pissed.
In the room next door, she heard her daughter Alina’s small feet padding across the wooden floor. Why was she not in the living room with the rest of the family? She wondered if her daughter was sad too. Damn, she felt at a total loss. How could she explain what was happening to the world? She herself had no idea. She walked to the window, her eyes landing on the old apple tree she climbed in as a child.
“Wasn’t the adult supposed to have the answers?”
In her bedroom, young Alina waited for the sparrow who kept a nest in the tree right by her window.She wanted to tell the bird she would brush her Mom’s hair tonight to cheer her up.
Separated by a wall, woman and child stared out of their windows, one noticing the nest for the first time, the other knew it’s first twig. As each momentarily forgot the world, Mother and daughter began breathing in a synchronized melody of accord, an ancient rhythm written together in the womb of the hearts.
If there was one thing Steven always prided himself on, it was his ability to remain in control. And now here he was, having to admit he didn’t know everything, all day long. Shit, couldn’t even use his brisk and efficient handshake during introductions to the new nurses. He was left to make eye contact, which he hated.
Marcus removed his surgical mask , his clothes and turned the shower on full. Steam filled the bathroom as he stepped under the stream of water and shut the stall door.
In the fog of the bathroom mirror, spirit Arthur beheld his son with love, through the glass he could clearly see the water running down Stevens drawn face. ‘Water, please do your best and soothe my son. ‘
Steven almost hiccuped an inhale into the misty cocoon of fog. Damn, he felt so weak when he cried.
Arthur wishes he could tell him everything would be ok, that not knowing would be his greatest teacher of heart. But that would take away from the wisdom.
So he dispersed into the steam, to be inhaled by his son. An offering of love and apology.
Above the spirits sighed too, as a narrow path broke in the fog over the earth. It seeped in, like a small vein of life in space. As if an ancient heartbeat was being found. And memories of something long cherished was returning ever so slowly into the oxygen supply below.
*Image: Christian Schloe, Time to fly