101 Words

He sneezed. The sound echoed around the world. An ungainly tissue held against his bloated nose. His eyes streamed as he twisted the pill packet over again, unhelpfully empty.

He dreamed of igloos, of expanses of ice, of windless plains and pollenless living. He closed his eyes tightly, consuming the blank and vivid moment, until, at last, he felt some relief.

His daughter squeezed his hand, willing him to return with a jolt of laughter, as she pulled him down to drape her first daisy chain over his head. His sweetness, his light. His melting ice caps, his polar bear bite.

Visits are different now. They live in the same house, but something has changed.

Every time I leave, I take a memento. Once it was an old family photo, one I’d never seen. Another time, a candy jar that used to sit on the kitchen table. How many times I’d lifted the lid of that jar, exploring its contents with child-like wonder.

Now they give me little keepsakes and hugs. Their eyes speak of secrets I don’t want to know. “Someday,” they say.

Someday…

I’ll sit in his chair. I’ll open her music box and bittersweet memories will fill the room.

The road out of town loomed ahead. Away from this town of closed minds. She often drove to this point. But never any further. She wondered what it would be like to cross that line.

That line to freedom. That line to the unknown. A world where pansexuality was just another sexuality. Not some “weird cult” as Old Ned Flanagan said in the pub. Community atmosphere, yeah right.

But she was in limbo. Would it be any better out in that big world? Would there be another Old Flanagan out there? Probably.

So here she was yet again. At this crossroads.

They wag heads. “So sad.” Pinch away tears. “Too young. Was cancer that took her.”

They kneel beside my shell, then slump back to metal folding chairs, heads bowed.

I stand unseen on gaudy, tear-soaked carpeting then float from this place of too many flowers. I am the sky. The wind. A whisper like soft breath on shoulders. That streaming light in the night.

They lumber through nine to five. See the world as asphalt and power lines. Hold their cheeks at the thought of me.

If only they knew, I flutter at their backs as they fold over my grave.

I am tree. Yes. Tree know English. English hard. Tree take very, very long time to learn English. Only one day a year tree can speak. Yes. Tree can speak. Speak on first day of spring. Yes. Yes. But only speak if spoken to. Make it very hard. Many years humans spoke to tree. Tree very fluent in Latin. Can speak poetry in Latin and sing songs and make speeches. Tree was big hit. Made breakthrough in Classical oratory. But tree never hear Latin today. Now strange English. And no one speak to tree anymore. They have forgotten how. Tree lonely.

A dead body breathing strolled the path down Aurora Avenue. Her skin burned, tingling, peeling from the long trek without sunscreen. Heart rate accelerated. She could almost taste the vinegar. Heroin. Oh, sweet heroin. She’d feel alive soon.

In that dealer’s car, she could wait no longer. Spoon? Check. Syringe? Yes. Frantically boiled water splattered onto her hand, shit, she said, what a waste. Into the cooker it goes, sucked up, tapped, bubbles gone.

Arm going numb from such a tightly-wound tourniquet, the needle dangled from clenched teeth. Liquid relief found its way into her blood stream. Now, she could breathe.