She wonders sometimes, what it will be like to die. To just quietly disappear and everything to stop. She sits in the shut dark of cupboards sometimes, her ears stuffed with cottonwool, sitting so bookshelf still, and she holds her breath – can’t stop the sound of her heart though or the sound of her thoughts rising like bubbles in a glass. She tries to capture the moment after falling into sleep, or the moment before waking, those moments must be what being dead is like, she thinks, but they elude her.
‘You alright, honey?’ says her mom.
Lucy shrugs and looks down at her feet. In her head she is trying to disconnect, trying to break the connection between her feet and herself. If only she could convince herself that the feet she sees are not her own, that would be a start.
‘Such pretty feet,’ her mom says.
Sometimes, at the local swimming pool, she swims down to the tiled bottom, kicking her feet behind her; then the weight of water pressing down on her, and she lies there, in the coolness of the deep, and she closes her eyes and the dark is muffled, and she lets herself go, her arms and her legs, spread-eagled like a star.
‘Such pretty fingers and toes,’ says her dad, his voice coming to her out of the near darkness. And he puts one finger across his lips and shushes her to silence.
Spread-eagled like a fallen star, for she has heard that stars fall sometimes, only they are not really stars but have only the appearance of stars in the night sky. They are the tails of comets or space debris – rocks and ice and meteors – and they enter earth’s atmosphere, burning up, burning as hot as small suns.
‘And pretty diddies,’ says her dad. ‘See how pretty,’ and his hands touch her there, and she looks at his hands and looks at her diddies, and maybe they are a little bigger than they were, for didn’t mom said only that morning that she was becoming a woman now; and those diddies, kneaded by her dad’s two hands, they do not look as though they belong to her.
Sometimes they burn so bright those space rocks or ice, so bright they are like stars falling, and she wonders what it would be like to catch a falling star, if it would be hot or cold in her hand. And her diddies burn, too, sometimes, and she tries not to feel if they are hot or cold.
And Lucy tries to imagine what it would be like being dead, and not being in this world or any other. She feels numb, that sensation when a limb has gone to sleep, except she feels it all over. And she closes her eyes, tight as pinches, and she holds her breath, and she stops her heart – she thinks she can do that – and then only the sound of her own thoughts and the sound of her dad blowing air, and the dark presses down on her, like the weight of water, pressing and pressing, and just for a moment she is a star thrown back to the sky and waiting only to fall.
As always, thank you Patty, for reading these and letting them hang here on your lovely site.
Not sure that ‘adore’ is what I wished for the reader to feel with this one – it pained me writing it and hurts when I read it over and I think it might be something to do with someone I have known and helped.
Patricia Ann McNair 
She wonders sometimes, what it will be like to die. To just quietly disappear and everything to stop. She sits in the shut dark of cupboards sometimes, her ears stuffed with cottonwool, sitting so bookshelf still, and she holds her breath – can’t stop the sound of her heart though or the sound of her thoughts rising like bubbles in a glass. She tries to capture the moment after falling into sleep, or the moment before waking, those moments must be what being dead is like, she thinks, but they elude her.
‘You alright, honey?’ says her mom.
Lucy shrugs and looks down at her feet. In her head she is trying to disconnect, trying to break the connection between her feet and herself. If only she could convince herself that the feet she sees are not her own, that would be a start.
‘Such pretty feet,’ her mom says.
Sometimes, at the local swimming pool, she swims down to the tiled bottom, kicking her feet behind her; then the weight of water pressing down on her, and she lies there, in the coolness of the deep, and she closes her eyes and the dark is muffled, and she lets herself go, her arms and her legs, spread-eagled like a star.
‘Such pretty fingers and toes,’ says her dad, his voice coming to her out of the near darkness. And he puts one finger across his lips and shushes her to silence.
Spread-eagled like a fallen star, for she has heard that stars fall sometimes, only they are not really stars but have only the appearance of stars in the night sky. They are the tails of comets or space debris – rocks and ice and meteors – and they enter earth’s atmosphere, burning up, burning as hot as small suns.
‘And pretty diddies,’ says her dad. ‘See how pretty,’ and his hands touch her there, and she looks at his hands and looks at her diddies, and maybe they are a little bigger than they were, for didn’t mom said only that morning that she was becoming a woman now; and those diddies, kneaded by her dad’s two hands, they do not look as though they belong to her.
Sometimes they burn so bright those space rocks or ice, so bright they are like stars falling, and she wonders what it would be like to catch a falling star, if it would be hot or cold in her hand. And her diddies burn, too, sometimes, and she tries not to feel if they are hot or cold.
And Lucy tries to imagine what it would be like being dead, and not being in this world or any other. She feels numb, that sensation when a limb has gone to sleep, except she feels it all over. And she closes her eyes, tight as pinches, and she holds her breath, and she stops her heart – she thinks she can do that – and then only the sound of her own thoughts and the sound of her dad blowing air, and the dark presses down on her, like the weight of water, pressing and pressing, and just for a moment she is a star thrown back to the sky and waiting only to fall.
Lindsay, friend, I adore this one. Thank you!
As always, thank you Patty, for reading these and letting them hang here on your lovely site.
Not sure that ‘adore’ is what I wished for the reader to feel with this one – it pained me writing it and hurts when I read it over and I think it might be something to do with someone I have known and helped.
And I adore it for the same reasons. Painful, yet beautiful. The wonderful ache.
Thanks, Patty… can always use a little adoration. Hope you are well and on top of your work (so that your writing has time).