“There is just this moment when it might happen, if I can make it happen,” he thinks. “Just this small window of opportunity, then nothing. Because next time everything is lined up like this – the chance to do it and the weather perfect – well, I might not even be in the world. I mean the wind is from the south now, through the windows, along the peak of the roof and against the hills. Which is fine. But if it makes a hard turn and comes from the west, God knows it might be just too late.”

He paces the living room, barefoot and feeling the cool softness of the carpet, but not quite enjoying himself. He wishes he had thought to have some coffee when it was early enough. Now it would only keep him awake, long after the chance to accomplish something has passed.

“It could be any time now. How could I know? Who ever does? Any minute now, I could be just like the rest of them – all of them that I can think of – just a thought, an image in the mind of someone left behind and sad, but still glad it’s not him that’s passed into a floating spark of energy. ”

Bone chips and a hum of unawareness beyond the range of human hearing. That’s what he has to contend with, in terms of a deadline, and he goes to the fridge for a bottle of water. Sometimes he stands and looks out the window, watches the neighbor across the alley, moving in the lights of his kitchen, and wonders what the man is cooking. Probably something good. A torta with carnitas and salsa. Queso and blue corn chips. But he doesn’t look out the window tonight. He goes back to the living room and carries the water bottle back and forth.

It wasn’t always like this. Before she left, he was usually calm about these things. She would ask questions that helped him focus, and promise that everything was going to be okay; that before morning, he would have thought of something and written it down. So oblivion could be held at bay another day. Then he could sleep and go out to lunch and wait at stoplights patiently, absently watching the mothers pushing babies in strollers.

“Babies aren’t the problem. Not kids or dogs, sleeping cats or uncertain weather. The problem is me. Simple as that. Me and my damned expectations, watching for shadows just out of sight, listening to the house for portentous creaks and sighs. It’s ridiculous, and I know there’s not a vision or a sound that can tell me where she’s gone, if she’s well, or if I’ll ever see her face again. It’s time to buckle down, make some popcorn, lock the door and get the job done on my own. After all, that’s what she was telling me all those years, that it’s all me.”

So that settles it, and he sits down and makes it happen, just as though she’s still in the house with him. He looks at the glow of the monitor on the backs of his hands and up at the clock on the wall, the second hand like a drum major. The wind from the south, from the ocean, dies away. The branches of the trees hang limp. Everything that was lined up for him trembles with a small satisfaction, because he turns on the dishwasher and goes to bed.



© 2005 J. Kyle Kimberlin
all rights reserved