101 Words

It all began with a tuxedo hanging next to an evening gown. They fell in love, started a family. Baby clothes appeared. The population grew. Pajamas. Overalls. Swimwear. Police uniforms. Hospital robes. A town of outfits went about their business in the closet, day after day. No one ironed them. No one wore them. No one packed them in a suitcase for a surprise vacation. The only heartbeat among them belonged to a moth, fluttering back and forth. “I think tomorrow is my funeral,” a left shoe whispered. “Mine too,” the right one said, a crushed cigarette butt under its heel.

Blades whirr violently against the long grass, whipping up a fresh sweet smell to dull the intoxicating odour of gasoline.

Hidden, a chick hobbles, freshly fallen from the nest. Unaware of the power of its wings, it watches the noisy oncoming traffic innocently.

“You disappear into another world when you are gardening.”

Remembering the words brings Theo to his senses. A movement. His heart jumps. His hands fly from the controls. His heart thumps.

The chick breaks the ensuing silence with rapid calls. Theo carefully returns it to the nest several metres up.

“It was centimetres from death,” he later recalls.

She’d hated the city for forever. People and cars were everywhere. Yelling neighbors, screeching sirens, and racing engines invaded her brain all day and night. She fantasized about privacy.

After scrimping and saving, and denying herself every luxury, she was able to break free. It was a second-hand mobile home on barely an acre, but it was hers.

A chilly morning, and she was digging up beets before the snow came and turned them to mush. She dismissed the flash of pain behind her eye.

She slept the winter away alone in the garden. By spring she’d merged with the soil.

After “go to beds,” after PJ’s, after prayers, after promises, after cats prowl porches lined with flower boxes, after storybooks, after one more drink of water, after lights out, after moonlight, after nightlights, after whispers and wishes, after closing eyes and counting sheep, after wriggling and restlessness, after creaking closet doors, after wooden fingers trace the foggy window, after tiptoeing to Mom’s room, after tucking in, after smoothing hair, after lips on foreheads, after “there’s nothing there” and “I’ll be right here,” after a car drives by, after teddy bear time, after Mom’s one last lullaby—always after one last lullaby.

I hurry upstairs before dinner. In the nook, a stereo awaits. Albums lean against wall.

Vinyl drops onto turntable. Needle drops onto worn-out grooves.

With electric guitar slung across hip, I sweep my arm upward, sustain a power chord, pose with hand high. Opened leather vest reveals Eagle and Flag tattoo. Pumping the whammy bar, I bend a note, slide my polished red fingernails down the neck. I strut downstage, flaunt my white bell-bottom jeans and blue platform shoes, toss a guitar pick at cheering fans. They reach for me.

“Richie, dinner’s ready.”

Damn, I hate when mom interrupts my stardom.

“How passé,” scoffed Anisa, but the truth was she didn’t like the salt. No jinn did. Shortly after the family arrived, the wife had sprinkled it everywhere in the house except the husband’s office, forcing Anisa to focus her energy on tormenting him. But Anisa had three successful haunting evictions under her belt, and reveled in this new challenge. Flickering lights, a waft of sulfur, but it was the mirror trick that pushed the husband over the edge. Yet when he ran to pack the bags, his wife didn’t follow. She swept up the salt, looked upward, and whispered, “thank you.”