Letters in Half-Shadow
by Paulina Meyer
Between my sheets hide fickle words. Today I dreamt of nothingness,
they read, but the nothingness is tangible. Medical professionals
enunciate the possibility of doom, and we prepare for a diagnosis
before the fall. Or a clenched fist in the chest before the heart shatters
on the pavement. Either way there is an open window, and no matter
how hard we push it will not close. The words are palpable in weight
and wrap themselves around my tongue, desirably.
Do you ever feel like dying , she asks me one day. We are walking along
Beethoven Strasse, and my eyes linger on the apple trees in our
grandparents’ orchard, uttering silence. Does my no dismiss your yes ? I
wonder. Her passing thought becomes the seedling in a damp bed of
earth.
It is Christmas Eve when she tells us that she tried to jump. I think
back to her intended date of departure and wonder if it was before or
after she started her affair with death. But a switch has turned, and the
phrases around my tongue evaporate. Instead I lie on the bathroom
floor with head in hands and hope for the aching to pass. Like the
words in my bed, Death is fickle—and my sister has become his
mistress.
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