Interval with the small things

    by Annie Bien

I dreamt you led me between two walls, very narrow, my head wouldn’t fit even if I sucked my stomach in — you pull at my hand and a door opens then shuts.  I tried to hide then saw it was you — Mommy — no longer dead from five years before.  My right hand clasps yours — once mine fit into your palm, now an illusion-like reality.  Your breath barely grazed the pillow that last day, you only slept.  I remembered the times you sang me to sleep.  Your hand patted my arm to a distracted tune from your childhood as your eyes gazed upon the waves sweeping your memories into Repulse Bay. . .  When walking the hill overlooking the hospital, the moon swelled in magnificent relief, magnifying our temporary state.  I didn’t want to disturb you in the room; I wanted to be uplifted, just in case it was the last day — just in case it was not.  Some tears fell, these are the it’s-okay-to-go-don’t-feel-burdened-by-us tears.  I have heard from the lamas that you hear everything when death is near — voices may babble but all thoughts are sonorous.  This is when verbs are infinite and you read all minds. . .  Then — sweat under the covers — blue illuminated 4:30am — a radio announcer thrusts the morning consciousness away from our hand clasped dream state.  My heart reminds me to awaken pounding into daylight, drawn away from the breath bidding the remembrance of our visitation.  Good-bye.

© 2014  Annie Bien

Annie Bien has published Plateau Migration, by Alabaster Leaves Press, received a seed commission from the Soho Theatre Company in London, and is a translator of Tibetan Buddhist texts for 84000.