101 Words

The seed blew in on the wind. She almost pulled it up, decided to wait and see. The first year, its pointed leaves were soft. By year three, a prickly bush formed. Summer stretched its limbs. Winter saw it blotched with bundles of berries.

Soon, she would decorate Grandma’s house.

Ice and snow came unexpectedly. They huddled watching the frozen garden. A flock of grey and pink arrived; fruit became covered by feathers. She stood ready to defend her harvest.

An aged hand halted her.

“Waxwings…” Grandma whispered. “Better than Santa!”

Witnesses, they held hands as the bush was stripped bare.

20151209298. Fay recognized the number as soon as it showed up on her arm cuff. She felt a lump in her throat. Not again.

Sitting on the edge of 20151209298’s desk, Fay took a closer look at the chart. Tooth number twelve, worth two dollars. 11:30 p.m. Way past bedtime for a ten-year-old. But 20151209298 was still lying awake. Motionlessness. Listening for those echoing footsteps outside the door that she and Fay had heard time and time again. Fay sighed and spread her wings. She would have to come back later, to pull the tooth out from under the tear-soaked pillow.

When I see you standing by the doorway, I feel a wave of relief. I was afraid you might not be there at all. Some people walk straight past you as if you are invisible or unimportant, but not me. You make me feel safe and able to carry on, quieting my fears, protecting me from danger.

I walk towards you with arms outstretched. Your cool gel drops onto the palms of my hands and I gently rub them together. They’re cleansed and shielded by your transparent screen. In these strange times, it’s reassuring to find sanitizer at every shop entrance.

Red-faced, eyes scrunched shut, tears rolling down cheeks, she pushes away from me. Her wails pierce my heart. I try to hold her close, but to no avail. She pushes away harder.

Once I was the center of her universe. I was all she wanted. All she needed.

I heat a bowl of mashed vegetables and a cup of milk.

The sobbing subsides. Gleefully, she opens her mouth. Greedy gulps. Her satisfied smile.

“Clever girl,” I say.

That night I put my maternity bras in a bag to take down to the charity shop, then consume a whole box of chocolates.

I did this.

The earwig writhes in the clear water, his mangled antennae frantically prodding the air, making obscene gestures over his broken body. Meanwhile, the tissue used to safeguard my attack floats placidly next to him, holding up severed appendages for his consideration.

Downstairs, my mother calls me to lunch. I move to reply, but all I can do is stand silently over my victim, wondering how many times I had smashed such creatures and recoiled at their splattered remains, only to discard the carnage with a gentle push of the handle.

I did this, I think again, and flush.

ATM lines are supposed to be fast. It was January. He’d been shivering in line for 15 minutes. The woman at the ATM was a flurry of activity. She repeatedly shoved envelopes, pushed buttons, and grabbed receipts. A chilled brunette ahead of him hugged herself against the wind. He opined, “I expected trouble when people could get mortgages at ATMs.”

She looked back at him and smiled. “Bet you a coffee she won’t be done in 5 minutes,” she rejoined.

“You’re on! It has to be a good cup of coffee.”

“I know a place.”

The conversation and stopwatches started simultaneously.

A hospice custodian polishes the floors all day. I wonder if he does it so the souls don’t stick to the floor or so the soles don’t scuff the hallway leading to sorrow-soaked moments and final goodbyes. The beautiful kind.

The whir of his machine is louder than prayer. Perhaps for privacy.

He doesn’t smile. Nor does he furrow his brow or frown.

Pensive. Peaceful. He’s a caretaker, readying reflections, buffing the bridge to the beyond.

I watch him from a tiny window in the marketing department office.

Realizing just how meaningful his duties are. Certainly, far more rewarding than mine.