drowning him to sleep
By Mig
22 Oct 2009
When he closed his eyes he could see every detail of their room. He looked from corner to corner, expecting to miss something, but he could not. It was all there. Everything. He could see it in the cold blue light of winter, the untouched snow on Susan's porch railing, visible through the dusty blinds his wife opened every morning a quarter turn despite his annoyance that the neighbors could see in, had they bothered to look. Spring, the budding leaves on the silver birch Eve had cut down the previous summer, that now stood defiantly above the double windows facing east, six trunks instead of one, fed by the cracked sewer main she would rather die than repair, faithful to its promise to afford the new renters privacy so many years ago. He could see his wife standing naked in the early morning light, standing with her weight on the outer edges of her feet to protect them from the cold, morning floors, applying moisturizer in the round, soft glow of the mirror that never moved from the second shelf of the Target bookcase he had bought after she left him in 2001. He could see her turn to look at his sleeping form, vigorously applying her daily moisturizer with spf in short, firm circles, wishing he were awake to talk to her. She could not see that he was indeed awake, watching her from one open eye, hidden by blanket buttes, selfishly withholding his company for promise of sleep that would come only in unsatisfying waves. The sadness of seeing her there, unaware that she stood in a distant memory, a disintegrating polaroid-dream, made his heart and his throat hurt until he shot upright in bed; his mind's eye locating her in the present. How could he possibly make this right?
She was no doubt with their daughter, now twelve, though seemingly a woman in her steadfast refusal to see him. Here was a sadness, a grief he did not have the courage nor the comprehension to face. He knew that behind this memory door was a mistake that time could not unbend--a weighted spring quivering with a tension that would snap him in half at the slightest hint of insincerity.
He quickly changed the subject of his meanderings like viewfinder wheels of which he had only two; guilt and fear.
Grace would spare him this night for in this waking dream she now rested beside him, a child of six, her soft, cool cheek rising with each deep breath. He knew if he offered his undeserving hand to hers she would take it in her sleep, thus, as he had many nights before, circumventing her hatred of him. He could not help himself. He would collapse with want and pull her to him, his sobs startling her awake, her fists finding the bones in his chest, stealing his breath and drowning him to sleep.
4 responses
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Penny Nannini gave props (23 Oct 2009):
this really touched me Mig.
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jen bellefleur gave props (23 Oct 2009):
...this is brave of you. much love.
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Maura Wolfson-Foster gave props (28 Oct 2009):
"..... like viewfinder wheels of which he had only two; guilt and fear" beautiful line in an incredibly poignant story; exceptional photo. Thank you
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Jo Haberman gave props (28 Oct 2009):
wow..a haunting story, beautifully written.
