Hours
The first song he played felt like walking alone on a Sunday morning, when dawn is just hardly breaking and the icicles that adorn the pine trees glow pink with the sun’s blush; it felt like the first bird waking up to find it has been beaten to the rising by none other than some dark shape moving clumsily through the snow. It felt like the thin crust breaking beneath feet to give way to the powder beneath, and the sound of footsteps echoing off distant houses and nearby hills. It’s a funny sort of feeling to rise before the birds, to be so alone in the white expanse, to be so unsure whether the frost in the air is refreshing or something more painful. Hands are warm inside gloves but your nose is pink and each note is sharp and clear, ice slowly cracking apart as it disappears downriver and around a bend. Sound carries farther before ears wake to muffle it, settling instead in temples and jaws like bells from atop a mountain.
The second song he played ached. It ached in your chest, in your throat, heavy behind your eyes — it felt like walking alone for the first time, missing the person who once walked beside you. Where did they go? It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that here is not there and then is not now and you venture past their favorite spot, the place where you always stopped for a moment, the place where you first saw each other, and all of those happy memories are tinged gray around the edges, bittersweet and poignant. It is a question: is the joy worth the sorrow that is to follow? It is hands crossing hands crossing ivory and ebony and so much to lose but more that has been lost, spine curled over a piano like the music played heavy over him, too. It was a magnet in your sternum, resonating with hammers on strings and the beating of your heart, and the hollow feeling in your stomach when you’ve lost something and you know it’s no use looking, but can’t stop searching, wearing a rut in the road because you’re afraid of moving on. It’s a beautiful sort of tragedy, a fallen star and the afterglow of lightening while the clouds scud back in.
The third song he played felt like jumping up on a chair, like taking off an overcoat after walking home in the dark, like realizing after that long and lonely walk that you made it down the path without stumbling. It was a bird returning to shore, your heart in your throat, a child learning how to dance; it was moving on, walking along that same path with a spring in your step. It was the happiness that plays across your face when you do what you love, the smallest of smiles on the face of the boy who was playing that day. You catch that smile, you catch his eye, and you know you will never be able to repay him for this — the pressure lifting from your chest and something long unfamiliar tugging at your lips. This is someone standing after years of confinement, chains breaking and fresh air rushing into stale lungs and seeing someone run into falling snow for the first time. Maybe the cold prickles at your fingertips when you wave to them, the most subtle of reminders, but you have since learned how to keep yourself warm.
Forget Me Not
Mama says I’m different. I’m special, she tells me. Maybe that’s why the other mamas won’t let their kids play with me. But that’s okay. I have my own friends.
A little girl stood alone in an empty room, carefully setting the table in front of her with a plastic tea set and vanilla Oreos.
“Would you like sugar with your tea, sir?” she asked in the high, airy voice of a child playing pretend. Her mother called her princess sometimes, and she always said that her daughter took that to heart. After a moment, the girl nodded at the spot directly above the only other seat at the table and pretended to stir sugar into the cup of apple juice. A little bit spilled, and she stared blankly at it. “Maggie, can you clean that up?” No one answered, but she nodded again and danced off.
A tall, tired looking woman sat in a wooden chair in the center of a faded kitchen. She was reading the paper, taking advantage of the small quiet moment she had. She didn’t get many of those, what with trying to work and take care of her daughter and keep herself as sane as she could. The little girl came skipping into the room, all tangled blond curls and fidgety movements. There was too much of her, and not enough, all at once.
“Mama?” She wouldn’t look at the women, instead swinging around as if carefully following the path of something flying above her head. “Mama, do we have brownies? We want them for tea.”
“No, sweetie. We’re all out of brownies today.” Her voice sounded as exhausted as she looked, threadbare and gray. “I – ”
“No? No brownies?” The girl stood still and looked directly at her mother, head tilted to the left. Her eyes were startlingly pale green and slightly unfocused, overpowering the pointy features in her thin face. You could get lost in them if you weren’t careful. A bird swooped down and alighted on her shoulder. She pet its feathers. “No brownies, Maggie.”
The woman sighed almost imperceptibly and grabbed her daughter’s hand, pulling it away from the empty space above her shoulder.
“Look, Cara. We can get some tomorrow, okay?”
“No! Not okay! Jack wants brownies!” Cara’s delicate features suddenly screwed up in irrational anger as she charged at her mother, a high-pitched screech escaping her. A young man, barely more than a boy, leaned against the doorway and smiled.
“There you go, Cara. She deserves it.”
“He says you hate me!” she wailed, trying to pull her hand away, but her mother grabbed her wrists.
“No, Cara! I do not. Just let me – ” Cara yanked her arms out of her mother’s grasp and stomped away. The boy followed her, crossing right through the woman’s line of sight; she didn’t even blink. She looked as if she had been lost for a long time, searching for answers in the deepest recesses of her daughter’s eyes.
A little girl sits alone in an empty room, her knees drawn up to her skinny chest as she sat curled up on the edge of a bed.
“It’s okay, Cara. She may not love you, but I do. And we’ll be together forever.” The boy was sitting next to her, a comforting hand on her shoulder. Somehow, he always knew exactly what to say. “You could get rid of her, you know. It would be easy.”
Cara lifted her head off of her arms, her hair even messier than usual and her wide eyes red and puffy.
“How?”
A distracted little girl and a tall, tired-looking woman walked alone over a cobblestone bridge under the clear afternoon sky. A bird that her mother couldn’t see flew above Cara’s head, and Jack walked invisibly beside her. A knife, stolen from a carefully concealed compartment upon Jack’s instruction, was burning a hole in Cara’s pocket. Her mother had a tight hold on her hand, trying to point out all the colorful flowers and lovely birds. But Cara didn’t care much for plants and she already had Maggie.
The other birds paled in comparison.
“Cara, are you looking?”
“No, Mama. I don’t care about the stupid birds. ‘Cept for you, Maggie. You’re not stupid,” she added, craning her neck to look at the canary swooping above her.
“No, but see this one? Isn’t the nicest shade of blue? Just like the sky. The sky is so pretty today.” Cara shook her head vehemently.
“No ‘s not.” The sky was dark and angry, thunder clouds swirling to a peak just above them. It felt electric, ready to explode. She squirmed in her mother’s firm hold, fingers inching towards her pocket.
“Now, Cara,” Jack whispered, his eyebrows low and his dark hair whipped by a ferocious wind that didn’t exist. The girl’s hand slipped into her pocket and she gingerly wrapped her fingers around the knife, trembling slightly. Maggie let out a loud cry far above, and dove down to land on the low stone wall at the edge of the bridge. Jack stood beside her, his silhouette dark against the approaching storm. “Do it, Cara.” His eyes were alight with a fierce fire, nearly frenzied, and ravens materialized and swarmed around them. Cara hadn’t seen these birds before.
“Mama…” She had never loved her. Jack said so, and Jack was always right. “Do you love me?”
“Of course I do, sweetheart.” Her mother gave her a puzzled look, swiping a strand of hair out of her face. A tiny butterfly touched down on her cheekbone, but she didn’t seem to notice. Her mother never noticed.
“She’s lying. She always has been. Don’t believe her, Cara.” Cara let go of the knife and bit her fingernails, her neck bent at an awkward angle.
“You sure, mama?”
“Positive.” Her mother stopped and hugged the little slip of a child, patting her back soothingly. Tears Cara hadn’t even noticed were slipping down her face, leaving little spots on her mother’s pale blue blouse.
“No!” Jack shouted from his perch, launching himself down and towards the pair. “Liar!” Cara whirled towards him, her heart in her throat and the knife back in her hand.
“No, you’re the liar, Jack! She does love me!” She lunged forwards, ripping her hand away from her mother. “You’re just jealous that she didn’t love you!”
“Cara, what are you doing?” Her mother frantically tried to catch her around the waist as she climbed up onto the wall, but was caught by one of the child’s elbows.
“You’re a liar and I hate you, Jack.” She shoved him.
But Jack wasn’t real, and you can’t shove a ghost, or a dream, or your imagination. You cannot shove what is in your head. That one step was all it took to reach him, and all it took to send her into the water below.
Jack smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes.
Two empty chairs stood at the back of the cathedral, which was half-full of people in black.
“Today, we gather together to remember the life of one so young, and so full of promise.”
Two children sat at the back of the cathedral, one small girl whose feet didn’t touch the ground and one tall boy with angry eyes.
“And we gather here to support Katherine Paulson, who has already borne so much suffering.”
A canary preened itself in the rafters, rainbow colors thrown across its feathers by the stained glass beside it. The organ music was quiet and solemn, and Cara had quickly begun to ignore the proceedings, instead looking around at the altar and candles with mild but fading interest. Jack was still, arms crossed.
“Go in peace.”
“Time to go, Cara.” He took her hand gently, leading her out the door with the crowd of people that didn’t give either of them a second glance, and didn’t notice the bird weaving in and out of their heads. They just kept walking slowly and silently, faces serious and eyes downcast.
A tall, tired-looking woman knelt by herself at the side of the church, in front of two freshly lit candles at the altar of Mary. Jack stopped Cara for a moment, and looked down at the praying women with something almost like contempt, but a lot like love and mostly like apology.
“All you had to do was say you loved me,” he whispered. “Then I would be here, and she would be here.” Jack swallowed hard. “All you had to do was take one second and pay attention to me, for one second, and say you were sorry.” Was that true? Cara let go of his hand and chased Maggie through the pews, her footsteps making no echo in the high ceiling. “Just one second. She could’ve gone without you for one second.” Jack had lost track of truth long ago. He looked back at the girl, spinning alone in the center of the room. “But I’ll take care of her now. I won’t ignore her, like you did to me. I won’t forget about her.” The woman stood to go, taking one last look around at the cathedral. “Mom? I’m sorry. For everything.” That, he knew, was true. She left, her footsteps resounding off the walls in a hollow, heartless rhythm.
Two children walked alone through the church’s graveyard, hands linked and heads close together to be heard over the nighttime noises of the birds and frogs.
“They couldn’t see you, could they?” Cara’s eyes are clear, sharp. Found.
“No.”
“What made me different?”
“You were just special, Cara.”
“Is that why I could see you?”
“But Cara,” he said slowly, sadly. “You couldn’t.”
He let go of her hand and walked off in between the rows of gravestones. Barely more than a shadow, he melted into the night. Cara followed him.
Two graves rest alone under an oak tree, quiet and peaceful. There is nothing to run from here, no mother to prove yourself to, no way to fail. No visions in your head that no one else can see, and no reason to die or live or cry. Just two small graves, one beginning to fade into the depths of time and the other fresh and crisp. Here lies the forgotten boy, the one who cried but no one would listen to. The one who could find no other way to make his mother see him again. Here lies the special girl, who was the only one who remembered. She had never been playing pretend.
Jackson Nicholas Paulson
December 18th, 1995 – August 16th, 2010
“Though she may forget, I will not forget you!
See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands.”
Isaiah 49:16
Caralynn Bridget Paulson
May 21st, 2005 – November 4th 2013
“I am leaving you with a gift-peace of mind and heart.
And the peace I give is a gift the world cannot give.
So don’t be troubled or afraid.
John 14:27
No canaries sing here.
Emerge Magazine 