It happens like this sometimes. People with clean clothes and a good living suddenly find themselves thrown into a kind of fever. They rip bed sheets into ropes and climb down from third story windows to escape their houses even though the door is unlocked. They tell the Oversight Committee that they fear someone is listening to them through keyholes and flowerpots. They insist that there is something they must find, something they must do or remember or realize. Their families worry and their neighbors talk, because people do that. Invariably the Oversight Committee will place them into a treatment program and their families will continue to worry, their neighbor’s talk will increase and drown out the conspiracy theories about the Governors. It happens like this.

Gaia tells of days when the sun was more than a source of light and heat. She says that people wrote poetry about the sun and about the moon. She says that people are the sun, that people are the moon. When Gaia talks the children in the street laugh. “They are a new generation,” Gaia says. “They will be the last chance of the dreamers. Their children will not dream if there is no Shifting. They will not dream and they will not even know what they are missing.”

In my dreams there are colors, vibrant colors and smells, like the almonds from Gaia’s kitchen and the dinners my mother makes when Paul comes home from school every year. There are words, floating on rivers and branches overhanging the river are filled with children, laughing. In the distance there are storms and sunlight and skies filled with birds or hovercraft. In my dreams, I am often running and when I wake, I am panting and out of breath and I am relieved to wake up, and I am also grieved for the world in my dream.

…

Abbi lifted the bundle of clothes from Gaia’s floor placing them gently on the bed. The scent of almonds was nearly overwhelming now and Abbi had to sit down next to them before she began to fold them neatly. She closed her eyes and inhaled, remembering something just out of reach of herself. She shook her head and groaned in frustration.

Gaia emerged in the doorway and hobbled quietly into the room. She chuckled softly “You are thinking too hard.” She made her way to the hard backed chair nearest the bed.

“I can’t explain it, “ Abbi began, “that smell reminds me of something and I don’t know what it reminds me of. Isn’t that crazy?”

Gaia nodded, her eyebrows upraised, “Yes,” she said firmly and then she broke into an old woman’s cackle. Abbi shook her head again and smiled. “It will come to you,” Gaia assured her. “It will come to you in time, in God’s time. You’re not ready yet to know why it lingers in you. It will come.”

“Does everyone have these, uh…” Abbi searched for a word, “flashes?” Gaia stared out the window.

“Yes.” She turned to look back at Abbi, her face creased with age and concern. Her eyes crinkled at the edge, “they do not seek it out but yes, they have the memory, the memory of us all. Most will brush it off, like lint from their shoulder; they’ll blame it food poisoning or too much wine. Yet, we are all poets, even the Governors are poets, even the well informed, the inner circle, but of course, they already know everything. Their memories are strong. It’s safe for them to remember, you see.”

Abbi nodded, but she did not really understand. Often when Gaia spoke of these things she nodded. Often Abbi would write it down anyway, even though she did not understand. Gaia said it was important and that one day it would be clear.

 Abbi folded the sheets carefully, smoothing out the places where the wrinkles seemed to be setting in. Gaia was fortunate to have someone willing to dry her laundry once a week. Her next-door neighbor, Patrice had known Gaia for most of her adult life. At one time, Patrice had come to Gaia’s house along with most of the city when Gaia spoke. Patrice stopped coming when the Sentries began to make themselves more visible. She was afraid of what it meant and had confessed this to Gaia who encouraged her to follow her conscience. Patrice no longer came to Gaia’s on Sunday but she was eager to help out in any way she could. Abbi thought that perhaps she felt guilty but Gaia only sighed when Abbi suggested this. She would take Abbi’s face in her soft, leather hands and kiss her forehead. “Let us save our mistrust for another. When we begin to talk this way we lose the thread of our present moment. It is all we have, this thread. Be at peace, Abbi.” As she said this she released Abbi’s face and touched her own forehead and heart with her fingertips. Abbi smiled at the gesture. Gaia’s responses had become entirely predictable. It was comforting.

 The knock at the door startled Abbi. She and Gaia exchanged a quick look. “Do you want me to get it?” Abbi offered.

“No, no…” Gaia said, waving her hand casually. “I am not concerned.” Abbi moved from the door automatically, unsure of what she ought to do. She had no reason to fear the Sentries or the Oversight Committee. Even so, she found that she was concerned. Too much had happened in the last few days with Peter’s leaving and the whisperings of “shifting” in the other continents. Gaia swung the door open wide without care. She placed her hands on her squat hips, “Yes?” The man who stood on the porch looked to be in his mid 40’s, clean cut and well dressed. Abbi had never seen him before. Through the screen door Abbi could only barely make out the color of his suit but the coat over top was light brown, perhaps khaki and very clean. She peered out from the room to get a better look and he made eye contact with her.

 He smiled and waved slightly. “Hello…well, to you both. Mrs. Calder, I’m Robert Murdoch, from the Homeland Office. I wondered if I could have a word or two with you.” Gaia smiled her wise, confident smile and tilted her head.

She opened the door as she answered “Of course, Mr. Murdoch.”

 Robert Murdoch stepped carefully through the screen door, a mild smile fixed on his face but Abbi could see the trepidation in his eyes and it confused her. She knew that the government had been watching Gaia for many years. She was not sure why Mr. Murdoch would seem nervous. He stopped just inside the door and turned to Gaia. He held out his hand, “I’m glad to meet you, finally.” Gaia took his hand in both of hers and held it a moment. She looked into his eyes without flinching and it seemed to Abbi as though he melted into her. Abbi closed her eyes and exhaled. Mr. Murdoch broke the handshake with Gaia and looked to Abbi. Abbi felt unsteady. She could feel the blood draining from her face.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. Abbi nodded and blinked her eyes open.

“I’ve been a little dizzy lately. I’m sorry. I think I may have a virus or something.” She caught Gaia’s eye as she spoke and then chuckled slightly. Gaia walked past Murdoch and ushered him into the small living room. She pointed to a chair opposite her own recliner. “Please sit.” She placed her hand on Abbi’s shoulder and turned her toward to the door. “Abbi, you should perhaps go home to lie down.” She moved her hands to either side of Abbi’s head and tilted it down to kiss her forehead. “You are warm.”

Abbi nodded and looked to Mr. Murdoch, “Pleased to have met you,” she said.

He affixed his polite smile and gave her a curt nod. “Yes,” he said, holding her gaze a moment too long for Abbi’s liking.

 Abbi wrapped her scarf around her head carefully, ready for the cold air and buttoned her coat. She turned to Gaia and forced herself to appear “unconcerned” but Abbi knew that she was failing. Abbi usually prided herself on stoic response to stressful matters but it had been a long and strange week. Her protective layer had worn thin, the veneer splitting and cracking around the edges. Gaia waved Abbi out of the foyer, “Go, rest” she said with authority and Abbi obeyed without any further thought of it. When she reached the porch Abbi turned to see Gaia close the inner door. She flipped her hood up over her head and nestled into her parka as she began the short walk home. The wind had kicked up, the sky gray with no sign of the sun.

Her lips were dry. The bottom lip was cracked near the corner and I could see a little blood dried there.

“You should drink some water,” I said.

“You should mind your business,” she said.

Still, I got her a glass of water while she shuffled her things from the doorway to the living room. She didn’t have much. She never did like to keep things. “Sit down,” I told her, and she did. I handed her the water. “Room temperature,” I said and she nodded.

“Howard put ice in it all the time.”

“Well, I know how you like it,” I said.

She nodded again and I took her hand. We both knew it was time. Her house was falling down around her ears. Every week when we met for lunch she’d have a new story to tell, about the lawn that was infested with moles– “more holes than earth,” she’d said. Or the awnings– “front bedroom fell off and almost killed the postman,” she’d said. The ice dam was the final straw. Spring came fast, like overnight, and Mary woke up to birds singing and a steady drip of water on her face. Howard probably never cleaned out those gutters, probably not even once.

“Drink your water,” I told her and she did it. Mary had been down like this for a year, ever since Howard died. I never did like that man. He was too handsome and too witty and too unemployed. I never liked him and I told Mary that every single time she had a complaint. I was surprised she trusted me with complaints after all the times I said I didn’t like him, but she persisted. She never defended him to me, but she loved him, I could see it in her eyes when he walked into the room. They were married just about twenty years before he drove his car into that tree on Route 7.

Mary and I drove out there a few weeks after the crash. She said she just wanted to see where it happened. I told her that I thought it was just torturing herself but I drove her out there anyway. Howard had wrecked the only car they had in that crash. The whole of Route 7 was flat and full of farmland. I turned on the radio on the way there. Sometimes driving along on those flat roads was hypnotic and I’d fall into an old car game to keep myself awake, just reciting what I saw over and over: rock, corn, trench, telephone pole, like a catalog of seeing. It drove Mary crazy as it had ever since we were children. My father used to say that I had a one track mind but I saw it more as a means of time keeping. I marked the time by the sun, the road traveled, the song on the radio.

When we drove out past McCauley’s farm to see where Howard died I held my tongue. Mary was already down. She’d been down since even before it happened so I kept my cataloging to myself and we listened to Top 40 radio to pass the time. Now and then, I would look over at her to make sure she was all right. Mary was usually the upbeat one, and the skinny one too. We were fraternal twins and though we looked like sisters, certainly, we did not look as though we shared a womb. I cannot count the times we told someone we were twins only to have them say, “Are you sure?” In truth, I looked like our father and Mary looked a carbon copy of our mother. She got the curly auburn hair and svelte figure. I got the stout body of my father’s German ancestors, basic brown hair, and milk-pale skin. I could say that I didn’t resent her good looks but that would be a lie. I did resent it while we were in High School but not after.

Mary said she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to find the exact spot when we got there. We had a mile marker to go by and we knew it was by McCauley’s place. Tom McCauley was the one who called the paramedics. He heard the crash from his farmhouse. At first, he figured it was kids out racing on the usually abandoned road. Since the interstate went in nobody drove the backroads anymore. Howard drove them because he said it relaxed him but I think it was because he’d been picked on the Interstate for speeding. He might have gotten his license taken away if the officer had given him a breathalyzer but Howard was good about hiding his drinking. The day he got the speeding ticket he was three sheets to the wind. He laughed and told the story about getting out of that “mess” every time I saw him. So, he was driving the back roads around dinner time to get to a “job interview” according to Mary. Most everyone else knew he was headed to the Off Track Betting station on the other side of Brownsville.

We were still a ways off when we saw the crash site. The tire marks were still clear, black rubber streaks that began straight and then curled around like a flourish on a signature, a looping “O” connected to a sullen “L.” Mary saw it the moment I did. The tree was just past the skid marks. There was a scatter of broken glass on the road nearby, twisted pieces of metal and a blackened bite taken from the trunk of the oak itself. We knew the car caught fire. I saw it when Ben went to the impound lot. Mary asked him to go after the insurance company told her they were releasing the title to the junk yard. It was beyond repair, obviously, but Mary wanted Ben to see if there was anything left inside. I don’t know what she was looking for. I don’t think she knew what she was looking for. Ben told us that he didn’t find anything. I always wondered if that were entirely true or if he was trying to spare her some further injury.

It was Tom McCauley that got the fire out. He worked on tractors in the barn on his property. When he heard the crash he went right out to see what happened, saw the flames and got the extinguisher for the fire. He caught that in good time, saving the tree at least, but Howard was already gone. This is back before anyone had airbags and before people wore their seatbelt as a matter of course. Howard hit hard enough to propel him from his seat, through the window, past the tree itself and into a nearby stand of corn. By the time Tom got the fire out and found Howard, it was too late. He called the ambulance and the sheriff and the sheriff called Mary with the news.

I parked on the side of the road as close as I could to the field where the tree stood, but not too close. The drainage ditch kept us from it. Howard must have jumped the ditch and flown straight into the oak. As much as we all puzzled over it, we could not determine just how that might have happened. It was not until that moment that I realized why Tom McCauley and the sheriff were so wondrous about the whole thing. It was a sight to see. The tree would survive. It was already starting to bud up for spring that day, wearing the scar like a badge of honor in the fallow corn field. Loose stalks still stood in lonely patches nearby.

As I was about to make a funny comment about the tree and the corn stalks I looked to Mary. Her hands were on her cheeks. Her face seemed to age far beyond our years. She rubbed the tears into her skin as they fell from her eyes. I put my arms around her shoulders. She felt fragile. I was afraid to hug too tight for fear that she might break apart into dust. After a few minutes, she asked to leave and so, we did.

Now, as she sat in my living room drinking water from the metal cups that belonged to our mother years earlier, we were a pair of widows. I sat on the couch next to her. I held her hand and when she placed her cup back on the table, she took up my other hand and kissed it. She scooted closer to me and we put our heads together. She sighed, “What’s to be done about us?” and I said, “Yes, the widow-y Walton twins.” We sat like that for what felt like forever.

The mechanics of the act-

Gears grinding

One against the other

Until the deed is done.

But no-

What of the earth here

Down below

Cool and wet

Against my fingers

That'll bring the Spring 

Iʼm sure of it.

We pried one small silver

square

from the top of that box

we found in a field.

We used my Dad's screwdriver,

old and rusted as it was.

It left scratches on the shiny surface

marking it forever

as broken into.

"Someone was here"

it seemed to say.

Inside, was nothing but dirt

and time

shadows of one more summer

before we found ourselves

something better,

soft hands

rounded hips

sweet breath on breath.

They say

it's history,

biology,

tradition, 

who will raise the children?

who will butter the toast?

they say 

this

is just the way it is–

but we know better.

catching sight of you

while I dressed

this might have been a moment

when I’d have said,

“you’ve seen better days”

each glimpse of you

over time

sparking the same

sullen commentary

sometimes spoken aloud.

each dismissal

another cement block in this

barrier between us

until we are strangers

connected only by this wall

made of cold concrete

criticisms

and nothing more

but I cannot live

without arms to hold me

and legs to carry me

without flesh

to house

this heated spirit

this holy heart

I cannot live without you

I know this now

that we’ve reached midlife together

when our days end

we will be married even then

bone to dust

disappearing into the earth

naked as we began