34, 38, 21, 10, 24

(Eluvium- Prelude For Time Feelers)

Friday morning, two sisters, ages 38 and 34. Silently, and at different times, in different places, did the same things.

One, 34, much earlier than the other, took a cup of coffee from the device that automatically brews at the same time, every day. She is already put together for the day, and impatiently waits for the time to pass for her newest husband to finish showering.

Still dark, she steps out on the deck to watch the steam rise from the pond, to let the three hunting dogs roam while they can. She takes out a cigarette, from a pack that lasts a long time. Much like her mother, she limits herself. But, she takes hers at different times. Once in the morning, once in the afternoon while at work, and once at night when the kids have gone to bed. This only changes if she’s to go out singing and drinking, which has become a very infrequent thing.

She knows what day it is, and a certain relief washes over realizing her work week is almost through. But then the strong force settles on top of her, and without knowing the date, she bows her head and silently cries to herself. She thinks about her, she thinks about them. How quickly it all occurred, and how much they meant, but really, the only mother she ever knew was her eldest sister, and she stands brightest, and she hurts the most to think of. She remembered the time, the hour, the minute. She felt the last breath on her right cheek and she held on too tightly to her left hand, not caring if she broke the deteriorating bones.

It was selfish. And, it was the first time.

One, 38, finished making the eggs, the toast, for her youngest son. Quietly, he ate, as the dreams from last night fell from his long, curly locks. She watched him for a moment before gathering his things for school, and wondered if her thoughts were hers, or products from her ancestors still living and breathing inside of her. She wants to believe this, believe that things still live on, that energy never dies. She tries desperately to have a faith, but the cup never seems to run over.

And finally, she is alone, working from home. Her third husband drained the last drop from the pot before he left for work, and she realizes that in order to work, something has to be brewed by her own efforts. She stands in the kitchen and watches it pour, and waits, something she has always liked to do.  Her mind enjoys processing and computing, this gives her time to do so.

She looks up and sees the calendar, sees the date, quickly sits down.

It always sneaks up so fast. She feels like she never has time to prepare. Hasn’t gotten the script ready, hasn’t decided which reactions she will deny. And every time, just like the first, she collapses. Her head resting on surfaces which do not move.

Surfaces, that used to.

Friday morning, two sisters, ages 21 and 10. Silently, and at different times, in different places, thought of the same things.

One, 21, woke, with no alarm, and stayed in her bed. She listens to her father turn on the water in the bathroom, and forces her eyes closed. She knew this has been coming for months. She has been counting down the days.

Numbers, times, dates, they all calm her. They are simple and put her at ease. No matter how different one may be from the other, she always understands.

She cries, wishing for things that used to be, that never will be again. Asking God questions aloud, believing he is just like the rest, dead, and in some place, very far, far, away from her. Her memory photographic, despite her mental handicaps. Forcing her re-live, time and time again. In her own way, she dissects.

When it happened, she kept her eyes glued on her silly Cinderella watch. She was trying to make it make sense. She studied the changing numbers, felt the soft click on her chubby wrist. She didn’t like feeling her. She didn’t want to be so heavy. She didn’t want to fly. She knew that thing, that thing that people had been telling her about for months was happening, right now, right at 7:23. So she made it make sense. 7+2+3=12, 1+2=3, 3, there are three of us.

She loved the three of us. 3. 3. 3.

One, 10, waited at the bus stop. She looked at the faces of those around her. Surrounded, she felt alone. There were things, very crucial things, that kept them apart, kept her far away.

To distract herself from what she was thinking, she knelt down to dig in her backpack. When her hand finally wrapped around the cool, sleek, device, she felt a calm fall over her. Against her father’s advice, she didn’t keep it in its case. She knew the eye wouldn’t be damaged by anything in her bag. It was all meaningless drivel, and how can drivel destroy?

She turned it on, she had to steal the image of something, anything, to keep this calm going. She saw then, the thing someone once told her a story about. The thing that she had never seen until just now. After she centered it the way she pleased, she pushed the button. The magical button that stored what she thought, that saved the bits, that collected in all the right ways.

She flipped the switch to view what she had just stolen. She saw the time stamp in the bottom left corner.

Quickly she turned her back to the others. Her eyes welled up, out of nowhere.

And she didn’t understand, because she didn’t remember most of it. She only knew then that she held onto a person that stroked her hair, that rocked her, a person that made her feel safe, a person who had a heart that thumped differently.

She knew the stories, she learned them later. But she didn’t understand the tears now.

So to put her back at ease, she found the imprint again, and took three pictures. All slightly different. One for each of us. Because there are three of us. She loved three of us.

1, and 1, and 1, make three.

On Friday morning, one was 24.

She didn’t do anything.

She floated idly along.

She kept her mind empty, blank. Because if it were to be filled with anything, at all, it would come back to this. It would come back to her. She couldn’t have it. She hand’t the time. This year, it was pitiful. It wasn’t to plan, because no plan was made.

She hadn’t bought the tequila the night before. And now, nothing to could go correctly.

So she kept her mind empty, blank, for the whole morning, the whole afternoon, the whole evening.

But when the silence came late that night, the kind of silence that sounds like sleep, but brought her none, she spiraled off into that place that cries secretly outside, behind the garage.

She sucked it up long enough to make it quietly back inside, where the sleep was sleeping. She dialed her number that lead to the voice that made her laugh her tears away one year ago, to this date, this time.

And when the time came to laugh again, and the conversation was ended, she thought quietly to herself…

There are three of us,

What are they doing?