"LIQUID DAWN"
copyright 2006 by BARBARA JACKSHA
In Limbo
They've already taken down the skies, folded them neatly and slotted them away. Like a billion shards of crystal, the stars have been swept up into one tidy pile. I'm sitting here writing a note, using a crumpled old cloud as my pad and an obliging octopus as my scribbler. Every so often he looks at one of his wristwatches—he's keen to make tracks too, it seems. But his ink is good, and I have offered him my sincere thanks for the privilege.
They left me the Rock of Gibraltar as my temporary throne, one of the last pieces of earthly matter that remains. Spain has been shipped, its connection to the Rock sliced deftly away like a piece of fudge. This rock sits adrift on nothingness, my wiry old frame and a handsome, eight-armed cephalopod its only inhabitants. Even those Barbary apes have finally left, taking the British along with them.
The atmosphere swirls around me—the laws of nature, time, and space no longer seem to be in operation. Oxygen is not my sustaining force; blood no longer pumps in my veins. I'm in limbo, but not for long. Soon I'll be moved on, to where I'm not sure.
I sit in the apocalyptic haze and wait for any sign of her. Figures move about, keeping busy, cleaning and tidying, effecting the end. Perhaps they are just universal caretakers, but I can't help thinking they are angels still languishing on the lower rung of the celestial ladder. Occasionally they assemble to discuss, at length, the most efficient way to move a chunk of earth. They seem oblivious to my presence.
Lives are lived in many ways, but the memory of my own life is fading away. Only one thing persists, only one thing holds any importance. I have to find her. Blind, ignorant hope is the only thing that sustains me. My head rings with her voice and all the mistakes and regrets that were inevitable in that flawed old human form of mine. And since an eerie, indistinct bubble is the only thing standing between me and oblivion, I don't feel too bad about reminiscing.
A dropped shopping bag was our ice-breaker. Oranges scampering across tarmac in an enthusiastic bid for freedom. I remember my first image of her: she was biting down on her bottom lip in the midst of an f-word. I smiled and in my own quiet way suggested sympathy at her predicament.
"Little buggers, eeurrr, such a crap day!" She said through gritted teeth, her auburn curls closing over her face like a curtain. "Thanks, very kind of you."
"No problem. You might want to watch those bananas though. I hear they're plotting a jailbreak by Dawn."
The bananas hung half-way out of one of her bags like a big yellow hand. My ears burned with embarrassment at my daft words until she chuckled, validating my questionable attempts at light-heartedness. I helped her with her groceries and bid her good-day. It must have been pure luck that I ever saw her again. But I did. I learned her name was Abbie, and she made me want to improve myself just to be worthy of her company. Despite tentative approaches and shy suggestions, she became my wife within a couple of years. Much to my delight and bemusement. I mostly remember the little things—curling my arms around her warm skin as she stands at the sink, kissing her freckled shoulder, breathing her in.
I've always had this urge to run for cover when faced with her smile. I felt her beauty hurting me, because of the innate ease at which she could spin my guts and send my head reeling. It was a formidable weapon, though she was largely unaware of the power she held. Challenging, cool blue eyes that would soften with so much warmth; a heart that seemed to open out and shroud me with her love. My inner monologue would repeat the same phrase, and I'd be embarrassed by the sheer silliness and immaturity of it, but it would ignore me and repeat it all the same. My God she is beautiful.
I'm brought back to my present situation, this strange feeling of suspension, by the rattling cough of one of the angels. I glance across the firmament to see his cheeks flame bright red as he splutters. He's on his break, and his tea has gone down the wrong way. He's standing up trying to clear his throat while clutching a half-eaten Hob Nob.
His coughing brings the image of my infant son to mind. Two became three in a daunting and unexpected blessing. Our baby, Thomas, had a hacking cough too; although as parents we were both terrified, the doctors dismissed our fears, stating such things were fairly normal. Early one morning I awoke to the sounds of Abbie's cries. Our terror was justified. Our baby dead in his cot, face up, his cherubic features lulled to inertia. Face up, just like they told us. We did everything they told us but still it happened. The unthinkable.
As dark mud swallowed a tiny white box, our happy existence sank beneath the wet earth. The skies shook like our shoulders, and fault lines formed under our feet. So many people looked on, each stifled by the feebleness of their words. Tear ducts became barren, and we were forever changed.
Abbie became old in a sense, from bright young mother to forever mourning. Although we were both engulfed by our grief, she had experienced a change I could not understand. I couldn't reach that part of her; it was buried with our son. The solemn surface belied the fissures spreading unabated through her mind. In my vain attempts to try and help, I was going to fall between the cracks too.
It seemed to be my empathetic impotence that led to our dissolution. Every word spoken to her was futile. Didn't she know I had lost a son too? She was never purposefully hostile, just distant, unreachable. Her own guilt was all-consuming, and the person I loved seemed to retreat from the front of her eyes. Occasionally she would take my hand or put her head on my shoulder, as if to reassure me of our bond, but in the end she slipped into the chasm of depression, and I couldn't pull her out.
Abbie was treated in the psychiatric hospital, where she remained until the end came. My own life slipped downhill. The bottle was a comfort, and the cloak of numbness became a necessity for survival. Soon my sympathetic boss began to silently lose patience, and the spiral continued downward. I was propping up a dirty bar in the middle of the day, well on my way to my own oblivion, when the end came upon us all.
I watched the footage of impending doom on the TV that hung above the bar. It swept from the east with meticulous ruin; the Sydney Opera House crumpled into atoms along with the rest of Australia, New Zealand, and East Asia. The sky and the oceans collided without a care in the world for many a human concern. Mother Nature disregarded us with reckless abandon. I raised my glass in a drunken toast and knocked back another whiskey knowing that only a few hours remained. My day of reckoning had already come to pass; I was considerably unmoved amid the panic which whirled around me.
Perhaps God gave the angels the nod to start the removal there and then. Whole continents were picked up and shaken vigorously to expel the little bits of people and cats and dogs and pet iguanas. Little houses and cars were brushed off; little brothels and little churches were cast out with equal disregard. Then the continents were put back in their boxes, ready to be shipped. Most of the little pieces of evicted human garbage blew away on God's disappointed sigh. They drifted off to become whatever they so desired, or if they lacked such imagination, became nothing.
From inside my misty cocoon, the horizons are becoming more and more blurry, and I know I'm not long for this place. I stand up and stretch my legs. The octopus eyes me optimistically.
"Yeah Pedro, you can go."
He swims towards what used to be the sky, his tentacles propelling him upwards, and I wonder where he's off to. Does he have an octopus wife and eight slippery kids to join somewhere? I hope so.
I present my crinkly note to the skies, and it disperses around me in a haze of senseless hope. I can only think that if there is any value in noble intentions, the gesture will find its way to Abbie. Only a few square yards around me seem to exist now; visibility is diminishing. I'm fading, like everything else.
A sleepy nothingness is becoming me, from the inside out. Just as my essence dwindles, I feel something grab me as though I was still tangible.
I feel a soft hand in mine, lips caressing my cheek; I sense her smell around me. I raise my head to find her heavy, hooded eyes boring into me with all her love and compassion. She humbled me every time I laid eyes on her, but now, instead of feeling unworthy, I feel proud. To gain the affection of such a magnificent person must reflect on the person you are, surely? But most of all I feel blessed, for she has answered my prayers and made her decision. Those sorrowful days of detachment have been consigned to an extinct history, and her happy, heart-shaped face shines back at me once more.
And so our two figures stand, shoulders wet with tears and muffled vows renewed. Our foothold of limestone crumbles beneath our feet and retreats downwards away from us. As she rests in my arms we hear music floating towards us on the mist. The faint sounds of gurgles and giggles echo and guide us to our destination.
Worlds end every day, ground collapsing from underfoot, skies caving in. But with a little help from Pedro, I've lucked out. Her thoughts had mirrored my own, and before dissipation there was reunification. Is the dust of our past existence drifting together through the cosmos? Will it collect and grow and combine with those odd gases and finally become our very own nebula? Like those pictures the astronomers took, of kaleidoscopic, almost organic creatures writhing and dancing. Iridescent figures colliding, like angels and devils in a great, gladiatorial arena. I like to think we're there too, our own little world tucked away somewhere.
She takes my hand and walks with me; our baby's wait is coming to an end. No longer at the mercy of the physical world, the broken pieces which seemed irreparable now meld together once more. We're about to become a family again. This time will be for keeps.
Copyright 2006 by Brendan Howe
