Dewdrop Dirge
Most people walk with a layer of soot over their eyes, yet they do not shed a tear or even blink. They walk with an arrow shooting out of their chests, yet they do not stop to cup the blood in their hands. They are propelled, drunk yet unswerving, blind yet unflinching, toward their final destination. If they were here, right now, they would blaze right through the forest. A recklessly green rush is all that they would see. The soft sunlight filtering through the boughs, the trickle of melting snow, the echoing birdsong of an unseen thrush… All would be lost in the great and ghastly rumble of: dead lines, pipe lines, pipe dreams, and dead ends. Which reminds her: he is dead. A wave of sadness crashes over her at the thought of it; she sinks to a seat on a moss-covered log, all stinging brine and weighted anchor. Lifting her salt-crusted lids, her eyes land on a whirl of rotting wood. She begins to count, each ring a reminder of how long he has been gone. Each ring a promise too, of life’s mindless, relentless march. Onward, life calls, do not stop! Not even when your feet sink heavy in the blossoming mud. Not even when your ears buzz with the shrill gnawing of bugs on bone. You can sit still and deaf, but still life calls. If you listen close enough, press your ear right up to the bark, you can hear the dull thud of the sap below. Without him, this is what her life has become: a dull thud against the invisible bark of oblivion.
Where is the line between adoration and brotherhood? Can it be traced in the pressure of ribcage against heart? Arms on chest, round and round, like winding the hands of a clock, anticipating the ring of the hour… but the release never comes! Or rather, it will. Like a cat crouching among slowly unfurling ferns, amber eyes on scampering squirrel, release sneaks up on her. A slink kitten, the runt of the litter, now grown, a predator to some and protector to others. In other words, the cat was there the day he died and now the cat is hers. That day, she found him limp in his armchair, his chin slumped over his chest. His neck, she thought, would be sore in the afterlife. No matter, no matter, she whispered, rubbing her fingers against the ache; patching skin with skin, clearing freckles with freckles, smoothing wrinkles with wrinkles. Her murmurs and fretful motions were met only by the cat, curled in his lap in a purr of clogged machinery. Feeding his body with warmth, already dissipating like steam curling from a cup. Without him, this is what her life has become: steam curling from a cup. When it dissipates, where does it go? With each cup of tea steeped she prays that the steam will grow denser and her grip firmer; instead it stubbornly dissolves and her fingers grow limp as she grasps for the edge.
Dotted with dews and frayed at the edges, the spider web above her head shines defiantly in the tepid light. Something so intricate yet fragile; even if it rains, the itsy-bitsy spider will come up again. If only she still had silks up her sleeve, she would weave herself a web of unbroken symmetry where the dew never dries. As it was, she could hold on to nothing, her fingers slick with loss. First her father: where is the woollen tuque? It kept him warm as he chopped wood and, slipped over her rosy ears, kept her even warmer. Then her mother: where is the little brown jug? It held her milk and with it the warm, sour smell of her breath as she kissed her baby goodbye. And now him: where is the carved pinewood walking stick? It supported his weight as he walked the forest paths, collecting capped mushrooms to fry in butter and thyme. They were all lost to her. The dew began to dry, yet there the spider lay, steadfast and alert, waiting for the sticky sweet dirge of dinner. Waiting for a bug to land on its web, like a crumb on a doily. The web quivered, as if the spider might have sighed, but it was just the wind. The wind, fresh with sap and song, filled her lungs. The leaves, brittle and broken, crackled under her soles. Their days of chlorophyll long forgotten, they still remain, fecund even in decay. Glinting in the furrows of her mind, a vision of tarnished silver and crooked teeth slumbered, waiting for remembrance.
Celia Schaar is a student at McGill specializing in anthropology, art history, and history. Inspired by stream of consciousness storytelling, her writing seeks to explore the ways in which music and history shape individual perceptions. Celia enjoys going on long walks and finds that it is on such walks that her best ideas germinate.
