Okay…so now to put on shoes. Gingerly, she dried her toes, being careful not to let the towel flop into the sopping puddle beneath the bench. Though she instinctively tilted to the other direction, it was important to remember to put her right sock and shoe on first, so that the broader, flatter foot could then support the weight of her left leg lifted over her right knee to put on her left sock and shoe. Done the other way, her left foot bent uncomfortably outwards, trying to support the weight of her right leg as she lifted it over her opposing knee. That caused warping and damage of all the wrong sorts, so it was important to remember the right order of things.
Collecting her towel, costume, shampoo bottle and comb, she was grateful that she travelled light. Given her body’s lopsided lurch, could she pass through that gap? Would the floor be slippery? Was she risking a drop into the pool? Only one way to find out – “Excuse me!” All right this time.
Passing through the swing doors, she balanced carefully so that the door weight would help rather than hinder, and carefully negotiated the stairs down. It looked easy enough, because she had been coming to this pool for almost forty years, but, put her at another poolside, and the vista became more frightening, less certain. She had patterns, places she went and could visit, because they were familiar. Remove that relaxing element of knowing what came next, and she floundered. It all became a bit predictable after a while though. She did long to go somewhere different.
People are not symmetrical, naturally, and there is no harm in that. Mostly, our hips and backs are able to compensate for minor differences, such as one leg slightly longer than its neighbour, or a slightly off-kilter spine. But put the whole mishmash together, and some days, she just wanted to dissolve into the water, so fed up was she with her short-sighted, just about can’t quite get it life. This morning at the pool, for instance, putting on her top and jacket, she leaned against the wall of the cubicle and tears just sprang up and kept coming. She was grateful for poolside noises echoing, which disguised her gulping sniffs. The yearning for release was so intense that she could hardly see her way to leave, to walk down the steps and out the door. But no-one commented as she reached the car, sank into her seat and wept shamefacedly, until she forced herself to stop. Got to go. Lopsided or no, must get on.
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February 11, 2015
Love
Fran Macilvey acceptance, change, family, grief, growing up Flash Fiction & Short Stories 2 Comments
Love
‘Careful now, we don’t want to drop her, do we?’
Her dark anxiety faded as a dazed, fretful bundle nudged and stretched. A fist found and grasped Helen’s finger like a lifeline, so tight, Helen knew she could never let go, and her heart contracted lovingly. Creased lines in the tiny face would gradually relax as the days slowly widened. Eyes open, Cassie gazed longingly into her mother’s eyes.
‘She looks like her Dad, see?’ and Helen began to cry.
‘Yes, she does…’
The pain of loss stretched her chest and caught her breath. Ordinarily, she took condolences politely, with a hint of a tear and a rueful smile, ‘Yes, Jonathan was a special man….very special…’. At night, the covers over that cavern slipping, she fell and could not breathe. While their babe slept, heaving sobs gripped her throat. She welcomed them, let them wash her grief, clear the stains of loss, the waste of his stinking sickness, and the happy times before he died and left her alone.
It got easier. Cassie smiled so brightly, and her golden hair, at first so sparse and fine, grew over her crown into thick, shiny tresses.
At nine months, Cassie played and cooed on her mat, flicking the crinkly cow’s tail and pressing the buzzy bee’s wings. Cassie lifted her chin to Mum sprinkling glitter, blissful blue eyes catching sparkles.
Doorbell. Letter. Who writes letters these days?
Darling Helen
Thank you for being so brave.
With all my love, always,
Your Jonathan
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