Lullabies (3 page)

Yet it is clear,

to all that’s here,

that time is told

by seeing.

Even though

clocks do not know,

it is the reason

for their being.

Lullabies

I barely know you, she says, voice heavy with sleep. I don’t know your favorite color or how you like your coffee. What keeps you up at night or the lullabies that sing you to sleep. I don’t know a thing about the first girl you loved, why you stopped loving her or why you still do.

I don’t know how many millions of cells you are made of and if they have any idea they are part of something so beautiful and unimaginably perfect.

I may not have a clue about any of these things, but this
—
she places her hand on his chest
—
this
I know.

Message in a Bottle

No one truly knows who they are, he sighs. The glass bottle does not know its own contents. It has no idea whether it is a vessel for the most delicious apple cider, a lovingly crafted wine, or a bitter poison. People are the same. Yet like the bottle, we are transparent. We can’t see ourselves the way others see us.   

How do you see me? she asked.

You are a bottle floating out at sea, he says. One that contains a very important message. It may never reach its recipient, but as long as there is someone waiting, it will always have purpose.

Will you wait for mine?

I will, he promised. I will look for you every time I stand at the edge of the ocean.

You

There are people I will never know

and their lives will still ensue;

those that could have loved me so

and I’ll never wonder who.

Of all the things to come and go,

there is no one else like you.

The things I never think about
—

and the only thing I do.

More than Love

Love was cruel,

as I stood proud;

he showed me you

and I was bowed.

He deftly dealt

his swiftest blow
—

I fell further than,

I was meant to go.

And he ashamed,

of what he’d caused,

knew from then,

that I was yours.

That he, an echo

and you, the sound
—

I loved you more

than love allowed.

Second Chances

The path from you extending,

I could not see its course
—

or the closer to you I was getting,

the further from you I’d walked.

For I was moving in a circle,

not a line as I had thought
—

the steps I took away from you,

were taking me towards.

A Phone Call

We said hello at half past one,

all our chores for the morning done;

and as we spoke about our day,

the world began to fall away.

To our highest hopes and deepest fears,

if I had one wish, I’d wish you here,

the tantrums and the horror shows,

the stories only you would know.

All the while with the ticking clock,

laughing as if we’d never stop;

we said good night at half past ten
—

at midnight we said good night again.

Entwined

There is a line

I’m yet to sever
—

it goes from me

to you.

There was a time

you swore forever,

and I am captive

to its pull.

If you were kind,

you’d cut the tether
—

but I must ask you

to be cruel.

Stay

The words I heard

from you today,

are said when

there’s nothing

left to say.

What I would give

to make you stay,

I would give it

all away.

The Seventh Sea

The answer is yes, always yes. I cannot deny you anything you ask. I will not let you bear the agony of not knowing.

Yes I love you, I swear it. On every grain of salt in the ocean
—
on all my tears. I found you when I reached the seventh sea, just as I had stopped looking.

It seems a lifetime ago that I began searching for you.

A lifetime of pain and sorrow. Of disappointment and missed opportunities.

All I had hoped for. All the things I can never get back.

When I am with you, I want for nothing.

Over My Head

I count his breaths,

in hours unslept,

against hours of him,

I have left.

With him lying there,

with him unaware,

I am out of my depth.  

If My Life Were a Day

You are the moment before the sun sinks into the horizon. The transient light
—
the ephemeral hues set against the fading, fading sky.

Until I am left only with the moon to refract your light. And in your absence, the stars to guide me
—
like a cosmic runway
—
steadily into the dark.

Chapter 2

Interlude

She was different from anything
he had ever known.

—
THE PROFESSOR

Nostalgia

Do you remember our first day? The fog lifted and all around us were trees linking hands, like children playing.

Our first night, when you stood by the door, conflicted, as I sat there with my knees tucked under my chin, and smiling.

Then rainbows arching over and the most beautiful sunsets I have ever seen. 

How the wind howls as the sea whispers,
I miss you
. 

Come back to me.

The Professor

A streak of light flashes across the sky. Thick heavy raindrops pound the uneven dirt floor, littered with dried leaves and twigs. She follows closely behind him, clutching an odd contraption
—
a rectangular device attached with a long, squiggly, antenna. “You were right about the storm, Professor!” she yells over the howling wind. “Yes, my assistant!” he cries, voice charged with excitement, as he holds up the long, metal conductor. She stumbles over a log as he reaches out to catch her.

They tumble on the dry grass laughing. He tosses aside the bent, silver coat hanger, wrapping his arms around her waist. The little transistor radio falls from her hands.

The sun peeks through the treetops.

She thinks of their first conversation. “I live by a forest,” he said, describing it in such a way that when she came to scale those crooked, winding stairs, it was like she had seen it a thousand times before. As if it had always been there, waiting to welcome her. Like the pretty, sunlit room that remained unfurnished, sitting empty in his house, now filled with her paints and brushes.

She would fondly call him her Frankenstein, this man who was a patchwork of all the things she had ever longed for. He gave her such gifts
—
not the kind that were put in boxes, but the sort that filled her with imagination, breathing indescribable happiness into her life. One day, he built her a greenhouse. “So you can create your little monstrous plants,” he explained.

He showed her how to catch the stray butterflies that fluttered from their elusive neighbors, who were rumored to farm them for cosmetic use. She would listen in morbid fascination as he described how the helpless insects were cruelly dismembered, before their fragile wings were crushed and ground into a fine powder. “Your lips would look beautiful, painted with butterfly wings,” he would tease her.

“Never!” she’d cry, alarmed.  

They spent much of their days alone, in their peaceful sanctuary, apart from the little visitor who came on weekends. When the weather was good, the three of them would venture out, past the worn jetty and picnic on their little beach. He would watch them proudly, marveling at the startling contrast between the two things he loved most in the world. His son with hair of spun gold, playing at his favorite rock pool and chattering animatedly in his singsong voice. She, with a small, amused smile on her tiny lips, raven hair tousled by the sea wind. She was different from anything he had ever known.

The Dinner Guest

The wine, sipped too quickly, has gone to my head. I watch the way your hands move as you tell your joke and laugh a little too loudly when you deliver the punch line.

His eyes flash at me from across the table. The same disapproving look he shot me earlier, as I was getting dressed.

It’s a bit tight.

Don’t be ridiculous, I say.

How do you know him, again?

Just an old friend. We worked together years ago.

He clears his throat, breaking my reverie. My grin fades into a small, restrained smile.

You top up his glass.

The conversation drifts into stocks and bonds. My mind begins to wander, like a bored schoolgirl.