the wooden frame stood, beads draping from its head like a headdress. Individually picked with purpose, threaded onto string one-by-one so close it hides what brings them together. A soft and wrinkled face sits at a table, a top it is a sewing machine weaving away what her old hands cannot make anymore, the fabric is bound with shaky hands. She moves her arm back and turns her head, thin grey strands following the direction of the motion, delayed as most thin and feeble things are prone to be.
skin and bone stood, her ginger hair tied into a bun, a mirror image of the woman before her - like staring into the future, or the past - she never really knew which one she was. Cass let a smile pass across her face as she set down two mugs of tea down. Her hand travelled up her arm onto her shoulder as she sat down, resting her elbows on the table.
“Thank you, Cassie,”
Her grandmother spoke with such formality. It was a lesson in history, really, of two different upbringings and outcomes. She watched as the glass fogged up her glasses. A smile exaggerated the wrinkles on her face as she pushed up the wire frames. She had good posture when she sat, even when she worked on the machine. Cass could only wonder how she did it. When she sat up straight, all it ever did was hurt.
“No worries,” Cassandra spoke, mumbling really.
She wasn't a proud girl; her body always moved inwards to itself like a hermit crab. slumped forward in her chair as she directed her eyes to the bottom of the cup. blinking, one, two, three times. Wondering if she'd ever wake up from the dazed state she had been in since 7, her head was ‘in the clouds’ as her mother told everyone - no shame in critiquing her own daughter. thinking about it made her feel sick. She resented that part of her mother, how she always opened her mouth to tell everyone how much of a terrible daughter she was. She looked back up, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment at the thought of resenting her mother, she supped at the tea. it had cooled. She didn't like the way it scalded her throat straight from the kettle.
Her thoughts paused as her grandmother spoke again “So, are you going to be leaving the house this weekend?”
The strands of loose hair followed her as she looked down, shaking her head softly, biting her cheek before she whispered “No” at least she wasn't lying - she could never lie to her grandmother. “My friends aren't in town, doing something.. it doesn't really matter.”
She paused for a moment and looked up. Her grandmother's seat was empty, and the room felt colder. The fabric had sewn had collected dust. she hadn't moved a thing. God, the cup sat beside the machine had started to grow mould. The only light beaming through the window from a streetlight that glows yellow. standing, she started to collect the mugs, one, two, three. all In different states of growth - for days, she had forgotten to check that somebody was there to drink from them.
Cass moved through the door frame, the floors creaking as she stepped. The beads slammed into her back, and she could hardly stand. As fast as she could, she moved to the kitchen, drowning the mugs in water, hoping the mould would dissipate through the taps harsh stream - it did. Watching out the window as the spring to summer, she felt she had been in a limbo for months, autumn and winter like a cruel time loop. Her body begged for someone to drag her out of it.
The same routine every day, unbreakable and oh so safe. It's hard not to sit in memories. Slowly, you can crawl from the pattern made slowly. There are so many things she could only wish to tell people, and she misses so many. Though there's nothing to do. As she sits now, on a bed not her own, the blankets thin and the pillows thinner. Feeble, she takes a deep breath, laying back, letting the guilt, grief overflow her. There is no door to walk through, no hand to hold. and she must survive the impossible. sleep.
Weary nights are long.
She woke early, 6:24, opening the blinds - the sun was there without warmth, an idol to worship but never feel. Cracking the window, letting out the smell of death in slow paces. Straightening the blanket, folding the comforter at the end of the bed
fluffing the pillows. More than every thought she has, the images of a crumbling woman, the wind blows. it whistles loud, and the birds chirp. Maybe things aren't so hard to live with. Everything is as fragile as life, and why should she be the one to kick and scream. Deep down, she is aware. The grief will never leave, never go away because you can love those that are gone. even if they are not here to hold her.
She knows grief because she knows love, and she knows love because of grief. Everyone chooses it time and time again for a good reason. To be human is to love, time and time again. Yet how is she to know such things, what wisdom is inherited, and what is engraved into our minds.
