There are different corridors in my mind, winding round, over, under, near and far, steps leading to steps that abruptly fall away to nothing. It’s something to walk these halls followed by and following the echoes of my footsteps like mischievous sprites leading me astray.
Each corridor is different as if it were some bizarre cubist masterpiece, deconstructed and reconstructed until it no longer resembles me and resembles only me. What is this now? My nose is my eye and my eyes are my mouth squinting into a smile, salivating or crying, while my lips are pursed as an ear. My ear? My darling little ear with darling little teeth. He was once in love with my ears but they would bite his kisses now and spit them to the ground.
No more of him. He is nothing but ashes in the corridor eternally ravaged by flames.
There is another corridor far away, must be a day and a life’s journey to reach. The walls are painted white, a pure, guiltless white. My fingers caress in a line, sighing and moaning, as I walk the length. The floor is covered with grass, new grass with an unheard of shade of green.
What color were his eyes? Hazel? Blue? I never knew. His skin was soft, though I never touched, never felt. But I could tell. I am a mother and mothers can always tell.
Oh that I could have touched. Would I have touched? Descended the stair? Tasted the peach? No. Fingers tremble at the thought and hide themselves away with their sighs and their moans, away.
I come upon a hole drilled into the wall by a very ambitious carpenter bee and I know by the honey dripping from the hole this is the spot. I lean my body into the wall, my breasts against an invisible chest, palms flat against the smooth surface, and I look inside.
There he is, that one I never knew with eyes of hazel or blue. I see him standing there, sitting there, walking back and forth. I only ever knew him in a box. Four walls, a ceiling, and a floor. And of course there was always the door. Saying goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.
Always saying goodbye.
He is ethereal, intangible, becoming a ghost. The details, the words, the memories like smoke. But the essence still remains. The essence of him, of me, of an us that never was and never will be.
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.
Categories: Literary Shenanigans