Reading to the Deaf

Mumbled words flow through my mouth, seemingly bypassing my brain, tumbling out in a rhythmic cascade. Behind my eyelids all is dark, so I can imagine the echo I hear is because my audience is wrapped up in what I’m saying.

From somewhere far away, a small bell tolls. It startles me and the worn, black book with the collapsing coil binding slips from my hands. I don’t open my eyes, but, as if in slow motion, I can hear the tattered paper fluttering just before the book lands on the smooth marble floor with a final slap.

Eyes open, back to reality.  I look down past my dirty navy-blue jumpsuit, the rags growing from my pockets, my scuffed black work shoes, and to the book lying akimbo a few inches from my toes. Return it to my back pocket. I will write those words down later after dusting the airplane.

While I gather my cleaning supplies again, I think about how the words just drip from my tongue; a tap that cannot be completely turned off. Like the far faucet in the main men’s bathroom that I will fix later.

The museum is long empty, the great halls quiet and illuminated only with dim, filtered light. The museum pieces were my only audience tonight while I spoke on my vast stage. Perhaps someday I will make it to the big leagues and actually have an audience who can respond. But first, the chrome fenders on the vintage blue Lincoln need polishing.

Snow

Above her, between the big concrete louvers, the world is bright; a place she once enjoyed, a different place. If she turns her head and looks between the slabs, she could watch him coming, but she knows. Instead, she watches the few dry leaves that have floated in perform a scraping dance across the floor. He comes in, pauses a moment to look down at her, and lies down on the cool, bare concrete next to her. He turns to face her and smiles feebly. She watches him reach for his pocket and produce a small, white box.

“For you,” he says, holding it out to her.

No, she shakes her head, no.

He pushes himself a little closer to her, “here, it’s been over a month now.”

She again indicates no and moves incrementally away, a few leaves crunch beneath her. It’s been some time now and she doesn’t like it, it’s not her.

“But I came here to give this to you,” extending his hand as he closes the distance between them.

She pushes herself slowly away; she’s very weak, but she won’t give in.

“Why not?” he says, finally dropping the box.

She can’t move further, “because, someday, I’ll be as light as snow.”

Fracture

My hands absently feel the rough wood of the bench I’m sitting on, it’s as prickly as my unshaven face; minute splinters burying themselves into my fingertips. The lake stretches out before me into the sharp, straight horizon. There aren’t many people out now, since the quickly falling autumn night means frigid winds are coming. I’m okay to stay out; I need to see the darkness come, I need to be enveloped by its silence. The fiery sun is sinking towards the edge of the earth and the sky is turning bright red. As the sun is sliding closer to the lake, the water is taking on a matching reddish tone as if it were enticing it to hurry up. My heart begins to beat faster as the knife-edged horizon begins to extinguish the fire. The most exciting time of day for me is always when the darkness begins to replace the light. The sun finally drops behind the veil of water and, like a blown-out candle’s smoke, the sky turns a purple-grey. I sigh and it’s over.

As the night grows deeper, the cold, biting wind off the lake picks up. I can feel it trying to steal my jacket, but I decide to stay because the waves are growing bigger. In the cool light of the full moon, the cresting waves look joyously riotous. I’m briefly tempted to get off the bench and wade into the roiling water, let it take me off to the depths of eternal silence. I sigh and the feeling’s gone, replaced by a sense of tranquility. This small window of peace will maybe last through the night, but come morning, all hell will break loose.