Upon Her Return (A Short Story)

Morning broke as it always had, paying no mind to the frivolities and plights of man— not so much as a passing sigh from the sweeping clouds as they coasted above the roofs of the infected, the dying, and the dead. Day 72 of the quarantine. Sunrises still beckoned to her, even through the monotony of hours in isolation that kept many in bed later and later. The promise of dawn's possibilities had brought her to the french doors that looked out on the tiny cluster of town homes that made a quaint neighborhood feel like the lost ideal of a village. She watched the horizon set ablaze by a dying star, repurposing the budding trees and birds that flew by as a shadow puppet theater, allowing her mind to wander into a tale of fantasy— even if for an absentminded moment of escapism. She hadn't noticed how he quietly entered the room and stood by her side. 

In an inquisitive tobacco timbre that landed unexpectedly soft upon the ears, he questioned, "What do you see?" 

Without taking her eyes from the earth nature was unreservedly reclaiming, she replied, "Confusion. Fear. Frustration and guilt. Greed. Hate. Sadness and anger. Grief. Sickness and death." 

Looking down to her impassive profile he furthered, "A bleak view, wouldn't you say?"  

She countered, "It's a bleak time. Last week I watched from here, as two children...a boy and girl of 5 or 6...who knows, maybe younger...were playing in their yards— yards that were separated by another. I imagine they were coincidentally outside at the same time to get sun and fresh air. The little boy caught sight of the little girl...and I'm assuming they knew each other, that they're friends, schoolmates, obviously neighbors. I watched as they would look towards one another and how they gravitated towards the chain link that fenced them into their own yards. I couldn't hear them, but it seemed like they were talking. I watched as the little boy looked towards his house and without hesitation, he climbed over his fence and walked to hers. They kept the proper distance between each other at first, but then she approached and without reservations of any kind, she reached through the barrier and he placed his hand in hers. It's that desperation for human contact with the outside world, with friends and family you've become isolated from...not by choice mind you...by necessity, by the necessity to live. Separate to survive. Her mother came out in hysterics, screaming through her face mask. His mother came out and pulled him from the little girl, ripping the connection. Blame and apologies and tears. Fear. So much fear at a tender moment, that a few months ago would've been cherished and captured in photo or video on those mothers' phones. Sometimes I wonder if the fear and how it builds and infects is worse than the goddamned virus."

In that tobacco timbre he exhaled a, "hmmm" and slowly nodded his head.

"You know early news reports stated that it was mind control, some stated that it was a placebo effect of sorts to subliminal messages, but then they began reporting it was a virus that started in an animal and spread to a single human and then humans worldwide. Most recently it's been reported as most likely biochemical and it has a more sinister nature, being released on the world as a test, if you will, for someone to analyze and calculate and devise, before unleashing the true weapon. To think all this loss and destruction is simply the result of a desire for power— a power no doubt born of the triple threat: greed, fear, and hate."

Silence seeped into the minute space between them, giving pause to the ache she felt soul deep, to the desire to turn around and attempt to recapture a lost breath. The silence entwined them and she looked up at his face— for all he'd known and all he'd bore witness to, his face never gave away the harsh realities he'd gathered like trinkets in his pockets; no dark bags about his eyes and deep frown lines about his mouth, as mementos of pain and loss. His nature was sweet and docile, as was evident in his ageless visage. She did her utmost to secret a smile from him, but he caught a glimpse of it in her treacherous cheek; the sleight of flesh in a dimple that mirrored a constellation— and the tone of her next words certainly didn't mask it. 

"There is hope, though. And love. So much love. They're something of a package deal, I suppose. The other day I could hear my neighbors through that wall, laughing with excitement as they spoke. I could hear the words positive, baby, pregnant. In the vice grip of uncertainty, they were genuinely happy. In a time when 24 hours are tallied by the number of deaths, they were tracking the growth of a life. In a time when the backs of minds are weighted by probable funeral preparations, they were daydreaming future family vacations. That's a happiness born of a hope and a love that no manifestation of Death—no unenlightened spin that man puts on the cruelty of Death's hands— can claim as its own and steal away with in its pockets."

A momentary chuckle issued forth from her partner as she continued.

"Two nights ago I stood in this very spot and listened as my neighbor on this side cried. It was a fear-laced cry of loneliness. She has lived here for a couple years now. No visitors that stay the night. No parties. I never even see evidence of her going away for a long weekend. I could hear the deck door two houses down open. The lady who lives there is a doctor, as is her husband. When all this started he took the kids to stay with relatives, to keep them safe from infection at the hands of himself and their mother. He opted to stay in a hotel near the hospital he works at, while she returns home from what I can only imagine to be the longest shifts of her career. I heard her door open and she asked of the crying neighbor, 'Would you like to talk?' And on a sob her neighbor replied, 'That would be nice.' I should've felt bad eavesdropping, but it was such a raw moment of selflessness that I couldn't tear myself away. Here is a woman who just worked ungodly hours, in the trenches of sickness and death, no doubt missing her family and worrying about their safety, and she's giving of herself at a time when she should be selfish, simply asking her neighbor to share why she's crying. And she did just that. She shared how being completely alone in her house during the ceaseless quarantine has had a negative effect on her. How she misses work, because that was her way of getting out and being around others. How she would work all available extra shifts, just to have somewhere to be and people to be around. How she has trust issues from her past that keeps her from relationships, and how if she comes out of this situation alive, she'll be getting a cat. They both laughed. It was a moment purest in form— just one person listening to another, allowing them to open up and unload. Listening and laughing, and from just that simple an action— generosity and an offering of hope. And it culminated with gratitude. Two words, two syllables— thank you —but those words held such wealth for the future. I like to imagine that they were both seated on the floor in front of their open sliding screen doors, perhaps unknowingly sharing a drink, and forging a relationship to be something more than just being acquaintances on the other side of this sickness. I think we often take for granted the simplicity of kindness. I think we often forget that it isn't just one life— our life spinning —it's a world of nearly infinite lives spinning madly about us, intertwining. It's easy to forget our humanity. It's a thing of sheer wonder and beauty when we witness tenderness bloom against a harsh backdrop."

With thought and compassion he offered, "Like a flower that grows through concrete." 

A singular "Yes" escaped her in a barely audible whisper.

"Annie, what seed did you plant in this unforgiving terrain?"

Puzzled she answered, "I don't know." 

With more thought she continued, "I don't really agree with the idea of this being an unforgiving circumstance. It just is. My mind actually goes to thoughts of forgiveness and acceptance and appreciation, and I suppose a small part of me wonders of the impression I'd leave in remembrance. But then I look over there at the cherry tree and it all makes sense to me and the worry washes away. I wait each year for that tree to bloom. I think about it through Summer, Autumn, and Winter; the anticipation and appreciation of its beauty, for its sheer existence and being. Everything I need to know in this moment is in that one pink bloom. That one pink bloom that by day's end will be five, and by tomorrow afternoon nearly half the tree, and by the day after that— full bloom —and before long pink petals in shower, leaving only green in their place, and then bare limbs at Winter's return. If you pay close enough attention, you'll understand the language Spring's speaking in— renewal —as she does each and every year. And when given time, this world will heal and be renewed as it has done countless times before. And in time, so shall my soul. I don't think the question that matters in this moment is what seed did I plant in others, the question that matters is what seeds did this world plant within me...to carry me through...and the answer lies in the peace with which I welcome my evolution."

Death took her hand into his, giving it a tender squeeze, as she gave one in return.  


E.A. O'Connell

...Excerpt...

Shadows take from me the breath to be exhaled on a silent prayer of silvered temperatures…halting my thoughts, mid-wild, I still and recede to my own darkness, observing…rain stained temperamental glass, I glimpse one shadow stalking an impossible trail, of oleander and timber, concrete cracks that den arachnids, all laced in black ice…darting to a brick wall, where it seeps within the absence of a burned out light…another hunches as a shrub, low to earth and out of sheers shape, it catches my attention, rising and in the blink of sight, stands beneath the street lamp, a clouded intention, we stand our ground until I’m blown out like a candle, nothing remaining in my place, but soot flecked smoke reading of my direction…from an ebon haze of sleep, eyes boring through me, I lift my lids to a third, kneeling at my bedside, a curse or benediction at its lips, I startle in realization and gasp, wiping an invisible touch from my flesh, I’m not for the saving, not for the slaughtering, not a sacrifice, neither a saviour, it sinks to the depths of floorboards, leaving me no choice but to invoke a spectre to stand guard, I blow it a kiss and roll into a slow-motion rhythm…shadows paint my walls in flame driven lantern dance, I float within their limbs, in a saturating realization, not to banish them, nor sever the connection…they harbinger and pique my curiosity…of who is to come…

E.A. O'Connell

We’re not only standing upon the precipice of a new year, but a new decade…and the pulse that has been beating as 2020 approaches, has been heartening. It swells with an understanding that great things have been had and are yet to come…a palpable hope…that we’ve peeked the strength of one, the mighty of youth in age, heart and mind, and the wonder of the grand design…and we can all be a quintessential part of the thrive in the next 52 weeks and beyond.

I suppose it may be seen as more a daunting task, and that some may scoff at the idea…to be part of the thrive…that the sheer simplicity of it could be the challenge, and yet, that’s what makes it all the more necessary. A challenge, indeed, for you…for the we…to be a worthy component of the answer…of the whole.

So it seems, we start at kindness. We often forget that kindness is not only an outward act, but an inward one as well. One of the kindest acts we can commit to is silence…and that seed of silence, if willing, can grow into empathy, which in turn, will encompass our every thought and action for others and for ourselves.

Kindness comprises acceptance and ownership. One of the greatest feats will always be accepting ourselves, imperfections and all, and owning who we are…which sometimes requires us to take stock of inauthenticity or intolerance, and seeking out the source of why such inequities of soul consume us, and then make the necessary alterations in order to make peace with ourselves. Kindness requires learning how to alter our internal narratives and speak from our truths. And not unsurprisingly, it often starts in a moment of silence, and that silence translates into showing ourselves the greatest of kindnesses…self-care…self-love. Never neglect yourself. Self-care is not selfish, it is our first line of defense in eradicating what exhausts, weakens, and ills our physical, mental, and spiritual well-beings.

Kindness is apologizing. It’s owning when we’ve been cruel or wrong or insensitive, and that includes remembering to apologize to ourselves, as it seems, we are often harder on ourselves for an unseen pressure that won’t matter a lick when we finally fade away to the memories of love. It’s important to note that apologies don’t have to be accepted, nor will they always be received, and that is not only okay it is sometimes necessary, but when you mean the words, the intent is conveyed…it’s only up from there.

Allow 2020 to be a healing, to inspire you, to be the year you own your strange and give it voice, to be a quiet, to be a catalyst for shattering glass ceilings, to give you the strength to face fears head on, to wash you in pride for great and small accomplishments…whatever the new year means to you, may it bring you incredible happiness and the opportunities to give and receive a wealth of kindnesses that allow you to trust in your role within this grandest of shows.

E. A. O'Connell. December 31, 2019

There’s never been a question, that first light calls to an innate thread within myself— a thread that stitches soul to flesh in the quiet place of shadow that whispers of mortality— that thread set to singing as the horizon sets itself ablaze, bathing landscapes, pregnant clouds, slate rooftops, in pink and gold— a view from distant height revealing reinforced cityscape glass, mirroring a long forgotten vacancy, where now towers scrape the ignited sky— even the dimmest of mornings, shrouded in storm or cloaked in fog, sets the world in a slow carousel of shifting shadows backlit by an ethereal glow, illustrating tales of unimaginable folklore, more often than not, lost to eyes blinded by a view of artificial blue light.

It was not surprising that my own children would hear the call of aurora— that they’d be found on countless mornings, small hands to glass, fingers seeking for what lies beyond the pane— standing outside, brains still dream saturated, unafraid of what could still be prowling the hedge, eyes to the horizon— enrapt by nature’s stained glass view through bare winter boughs or the silken curtain of summer green leaves— watching as dawning gold evaporates into hues of day.

I’m always head-full of Frost’s loaded words: “Nature’s first green is gold, her hardest hue to hold…” the most loaded for a parent landing heavy on the heart: “…nothing gold can stay.” It’s nearly impossible, truly unavoidable, not to notice how time is tumbling and gaining speed, taking with it the look of infancy, toddlerhood, and being a kid— and how I’m glimpsing more and more angles of my three growing up— and I want for time to slow its progression— but I know the folly of such a wish, the wasted efforts that equate to wasted time— no mortal has outsmarted time— but if you adjust your thinking, it’s no longer a game of strategy, of bettering the opponent, but rather a practice of our own pacing— that in those moments we want to stop still, capture, and keep— we should stop ourselves, shutting down all outside influences and destructive thoughts that steal us from that very moment we want to hold onto, and return to our senses to create a mental snapshot to carry with us— like that December morning, when the house was chilled, the Christmas tree a familiarly comfortable scent, speckled corvid caws vibrating beyond the window, my three standing in Jack’s bedroom, calling to me, “Mom! It’s all gold!” The entire bedroom momentarily awash in Dawn’s golden light— their faces lit in awe, their hands splayed on the gilded wall, their eyes mesmerized and trailing motes of dust in the glow, my barely audible plea, “How will you stay gold?”…in a world of unending sunrises marking the continuous passing of time, how will they stay gold…and the day-long searching giving way to a most simple realization, as twilight enveloped the land in teal and turquoise…never steal from them the desire to reach for and seek the source of what keeps them in awe— never stop them from taking it in, never tell them it’s like any other sunrise, never fill their heads with monotony, even if time isn’t on your side— allow them to wander within their curiosity and thoughts, to look towards insight of the enigma, and encourage them with the adventure of what the dawning of a new day will bestow— we keep them gold by holding onto or rediscovering what makes us gold, and in turn, we find a new define for the inevitability of time—

E. A. O'Connell. December 2019

...

There’s a delay in my senses, a glitch of sorts, all for the one, that which speaks to me, “You will die.” Ghost trails follow the cards I raise and let fall, sillage of misfortune fades like time wasted. New days dawn from darkness, as shall I, for what speaks to my soul is aurora’s song, and the dreams I let slip my tongue, become the wilds that roam the sleep abandoned streets. From a distance, I see golden stars hovering amidst the barren December branches. As I draw nearer, I retell the tale, of forsythia blooms bending rules. I get lost in thought, staring at the silvery velvet magnolia buds, lost of bearings and degrees. I wonder if I’m as brilliantly resilient, as daringly deceptive, if what may seem a weakness, a loss in faculty, is in fact my bounty, and I’ll persist through harsh cold and brutal winter conditions to thrive into something exceptional. Oh God, how I love my imperfections. I wonder if the stars I see, that signify a blinding ache in my brain, are pregnant with my own wishes deferred. I wonder a novel from a single word. All I want from this age forth, is growth.

E. A. O'Connell

...

My hands…black like electrocution, like energy that’s seeking an exit before exploding, my nails more like claws, blood beneath and staining the cuticles…a flash of insanity or clarity? in visions I sometimes can’t read…I slam the water off and realize I’m not breathing…I can’t detect my own heart beating…and then a stuttering ache reminding me of mortality…I sit…naked upon the shock of cold porcelain and wait for the world to settle about me…my hands once again pink and living tell of the tale in which I have to pull myself from the corpse, having to separate which eye I’m seeing through…swiftly disorienting…retrieving my bearings…I am the cursed one, built of broken minded pieces and faded souls in tatter, fashioned into a monstrosity of courageous proportions…I was once told in my youth, nothing’s more frightening than our ghosts of self, the skeletons we hide away in closets…I didn’t buy it…the scariest thing I had come to find, was simply being human… …

E. A. O'Connell

In the last year, I’ve learned a great deal about how to approach the topic of weekends and holidays; especially holidays that celebrate being with family, that are centered around food and festivities, giving and receiving. It’s a tight rope walk that requires sensitivity and careful wording, so as not to elicit hurt with the reminder of absence, loss, and having less. And with this in mind, I often found myself reflecting on the idea of thanksgiving this week. Not Thanksgiving as in parades, feasting, or gearing up for Black Friday and Cyber Monday deals, but the acknowledgement and celebration of gratitude. I’ve been making it a point this year to pay close attention to the small glimpses of humanity I see when out and about, at work, in my neighborhood, and at home…how strangers can share singular, fleeting moments of kindness with others and even with themselves…and it seems that we need these soul lightening moments more than ever in an age of civil and self hostility that weighs heavy on so many. I had this glimmering realization that we are all the living embodiment of thanksgiving, and that at the root of it is not what we have or can contribute in material things and financially, nor what we don’t have and can’t contribute by those means…it’s about what our presence and existence adds to the story we are writing each day; the interactions, conversations, and opportunities we have with others and with ourselves. The idea and act of thanksgiving isn’t just the gratitude we express to others, it’s also the gratitude we should have for our individual selves. It’s not an uplifting point to speak on, knowing that there are children and adults who will be alone or unable to be with their loved ones this holiday season, it’s in actuality a heartbreaking and sobering reality for far too many, but if I’ve come to understand anything in this last year, it’s that even if you only have your thoughts to keep you company this long weekend, I hope you know that to someone out there, possibly a complete stranger you shared a fleeting moment of kindness with, you are a spark fueling the flame of thanksgiving that spreads to and through the masses beyond the calendar borders of November.

E. A. O'Connell. November 2019

...

Acceptance; my flesh in torn fashion, gaping wounds, blood coating my tongue…I’m aware of the intricacy of each of my heart beats, I feel the synapses forming the thought, the cold wash of anxiety that freezes at the realization. Regeneration; my body convenes with my soul, numb, a white noise of existing…I’d practiced at honing my will, calling upon it, the searing stretch and bruising ache, stitching my flesh quiet…Death, himself, kisses the truth of my strength well, proud and stricken, he keeps me around for the insanity, the habitual flirtation, to see how close he can bring me, and how capable I am of saving myself.

E. A. O'Connell