I know that sounds crazy, blasphemous even, to describe such a tragic thing, a viscerally sad thing, in such a dissonant way. You might wonder if I was depressed. And truly, I wasn’t. In the end, despite everything, I was stupidly happy. Still, if I was being completely and truly honest, dying, the actual act of it, not the pain or the ragged breathing, no, the actual process of letting go… that part. That part was bliss.

Let me tell you about my life, before I ask you to celebrate in its ending.

It wasn’t a particularly spectacular existence, some might even call it boring, run of the mill. A life that could be mistaken for a thousand others. Of course, to me, at the time, it was everything, the only thing.

I was born in a small Midwestern town, raised in typical Midwestern niceness, by a father who was strict and distant but did his best, and a mother who was a tad too religious but who did all the mothering things with unmatched fervor. I was clothed in clean clothes, my feet adorned with shoes that were sensible and fit well. I was loved and scolded and hugged in all the typical ways. I had two sisters I constantly squabbled with, banging on the shared bathroom door, hastily getting ready for the day in a panic, somebody always holding up the one hairdryer, using up all the hot water.

I loved, oh yes, I loved. Roman, that was his name. I remember thinking his name had that unique way of rolling easily in the curl of my tongue, passing effortlessly through my lips, like I’ve said his name all my life, or that I’m meant to, for the rest of it.

He was brilliant, my Roman. I met him at university, studying astrophysics. He had grand ideas and even grander dreams. He loved life but at the same time was disillusioned by it. He said to me once, using his hands to gesture into space: “It’s not possible, you know, that this is it. There’s more to this, more to everything, we just can’t see it.”

You would think it would hurt, the way he said it, the way he longed for something more than us, more than what I could give him, but it didn’t. Because I knew what he meant, I felt it too.

There was something in between the empty spaces, he told me, between the tiniest of particles. An answer to everything.

I never found out what he meant, neither did he. He died shortly after his twenty-fifth birthday, before he was able to finish his research, before he got to meet his daughter, at that point still the tiniest clump of molecules gestating inside me.

I remember the pain of that moment. How the world became dull and gray. How I went to sleep too many nights hoping to never wake up again. But day after day I woke up, and I would go through the motions, and I would go to work and my prenatal appointments, smiling at my doctor, telling him yes, yes, I’m doing okay. It’s hard, but I’ve got my sisters, you know, and my mom…

Then I had my daughter, and at once the world had color again. She had Roman’s eyes, almond shaped and deeply brown, thick dark lashes swooping downwards at the sides. I swear she looked at me in the exact way Roman did, with that exact slight raise of the brows, the slight curl in the lips, and I remember weeping.

I named her: Aster. Star. The only one that mattered in my universe, my sun.

We had a simple life, our little family of two. We fought a lot, in the way all mothers and daughters do, Aster having the quick wit of her father, the stubbornness of her mother. She broke my heart a million times when she was a teenager, which we mended as we both grew older. Then as quickly as she came into my life, she left. I understood. She had to build a life of her own, having met her own star, her own universe.

And it was good.

“Mom?”

She’s finally here. My star. “Aster.”

Large dark eyes stared down at me. She was older now, my star, smile lines having formed at the corners of her eyes. Have those always been there? They must have. Aster always smiled with her eyes.

“Hey mom, it’s okay. We’re here.”

We. I couldn’t see well these days. She must have brought her little boy, my grandson. I squinted at the small blonde head on her lap. She named him… Roman.

I wanted so much to smile, but it hurt to even breathe. My chest muscles struggled to expand. I saw the nurse put a hand on my daughter’s shoulder, shaking her head.

Yes, there was pain, every single muscle hurt, the air caught uncomfortably in my chest, but there was also something else… something light. Suddenly I felt weightless. I knew then it was time to go.

Time at once contracted then expanded, and I could see everything, the future, the past, all possible choices and universes all at once. I finally saw it, what my Roman was talking about, the space in between the tiniest particles, the invisible energy that connects all of us together, in every universe, in every possible dimension. My universe, my stars.

I died then.

And it was beautiful.

HandsOfFire

13 reads

a tale in three parts

that a purple balloon flew outside my window

and i caught the string between my teeth.

then the way that your eyes adjust to the dark,

when you're a little bit nervous,

but i can make you smile.

and you're afraid of spiders, and i of teeth,

but we can pretend we're living a domestic life.

bunk beds and comic books and

you don't eat your peas.

and i laugh when you drop your soda and

spill it all over the table, a sugary pool.

so then bring you back home,

cozy in the night air, enclosed.

five chairs, like you belong, until it's time to go.

II.

that your interests are my interests,

that mine are yours, that we're the same except for some.

except for weddings and apartments and moving boxes.

except for being capable and fun and drunk.

except for not being a child in an adult's skin, like me,

like me, like me.

except we pretend we're kids again anyway,

and i wear a fairy skirt and clip colored pins to my bag.

sometimes i'm anyone because anyone is someone.

III.

that i tell you mundane secrets in the car,

and we scatter across main street like skipping stones,

past candy stores and fuzzy hats and sunglasses for kids.

and the first ride's not enough,

so we go faster.

and there are paint cans and beaded beauties,

and spaceship memories like unheld hands,

because i've been here before.

i didn't get dizzy this time, no one to press me too close.

it didn't rain,

and i didn't miss the memories.

then you drove me home in silence,

with the music just a little too loud.

i lost a pin, i walked in circles, and

some part of me is still screaming, waiting to hit the ground.

Challenge

Problems

We all have seemingly insignificant problems (ex: a drive through burger place forgot to make my fries), so give me a short poem about one of these small tragedies. Have fun, the little problems count too!

CEH4255

16 reads

7 AM, woke up late

the next 10 minutes will decide my fate

I know that I won't get to work on time

but I'm rushing to get on the road.

Glasses aren't where I left them last night

and my keys are in the other room,

I'm brushing my teeth and ordering breakfast

the clock's ticking down to my doom.

Pants on, shirt buttoned

hands full with no lunch in them

I forgot to grab my phone again

so I run back inside, 7:05.

Back out

got everything

car's locked

keys in my pocket

hands full

drop my coffee

get in the car

covered in coffee

and it's Wednesday.

HandsOfFire

19 reads

candy bones

i know i think too much

about bones being bones being bones

about

being alone

in a city too big to watch me nice

not enough peppermint candies to roll in my mouth

nervous clattering bones

a little bit

i'm enough i'm enough i'm enough

and capable

but sinking my teeth in the sand and

spitting up bile

bile

or something anyway,

anywhere else would be the same

and

nothing's far enough away from my brain cause it

runs and speeds up chips my teeth on peppermint candies and sawdust

like a skull hitting against coffin lid

or else not like it at all, anyway, can't i be a kid again

or else let me feel safe

somewhere

please

Challenge

Write a drabble (a story of exactly 100 words).

In Prose only, 100 words exactly, tell me a story. Fiction or fact, fantastical or realistic, just make it lean, mean, and punchy. No theme assigned this time, let's see what you can do without guidance. I'll choose the winner in June.

ErJo1122 in Fiction

16 reads

Angels In The Architecture

I’m stunned, standing in silence. My usefulness a non-entity in this room of pain, blood, birth, and beginnings. It’s beautiful, but terrifying. I hold her hand, tell her it’s alright, tell her that I love her, and that it’ll be over soon. Empty promises escaping my mouth like cold-calculating prisoners. I don’t know what’s happening. There are doctors whispering amongst each other, their faces unreadable. But although she’s sweating, swearing, and writhe with pain, she’s beautiful. Her body a cathedral and from it a blessing. I hold my girl and hear Paul Simon singing he sees angels in the architecture.