A Harsh and Fearful Thing

Words Were Not Enough

Katrina used to be a joyful person. 

Mama often told houseguests that as a child, Katrina had been like a pot boiling over with words and laughs and awe, never giving her a moment of peace. Guests' unfettered surprise at Mama's words made it clear that, no matter how hard she might try to smile and laugh when the others did, no matter how hard she strove to engage with the world on its terms, she was not the girl she used to be. 

Katrina remembered it too, how as a child, the mundane things of life seemed bursting with color and meaning. A walk through the Maine woods behind her house was a grand adventure, snow-laden pines all but singing along to the crunch of her boots. And singing, oh, she had loved to sing loud songs of praise to the God her parents had taught her, not caring a bit about whether her voice hit the right notes. When she began painting, it was much the same, but instead of her expression producing clamor, she found that spilling her heart onto a blank canvas actually turned into something beautiful.

But such a capacity for feeling, it had become clear, had its dark side. Melancholy. Those four syllables were the closest that English could come to describing the wraithlike force that had been slowly gaining ground in the unseen, untold parts of her. Perhaps it wasn't a pursuit; perhaps it was a tumor growing inside her, a latent energy that was fed by the happenings of life that the rest of the world shrugged at with indifference. Whatever it was, she was afraid she wouldn't be able to outrun it, even if she traveled halfway across the world. But at least she had to try. Oh, she had to try.

The wheels of the Soviet-era train thrummed along the tracks with the same steady beat that had rocked her to sleep earlier. She stretched her arms over her head and sat up on the bench-turned-bed, one of 6 bunks in her section of the platzkart. Throwing off the roughly hewn bedsheet Russian Railways had deemed suitable for their passengers, she squinted into the sunset. Its brilliant orange and purple hues dazzled against the blanket of white and horizon of fir trees flying by like black skeletons.

She used to think that God spoke to her in the sunset. Back when her faith had been as simple as two plus two equals four, when the questions were met with answers that made sense, when prayers were answered and joy blazed. It was during sunsets like these, where the colors danced in a way that she could never hope to mimic with her paintbrush, that she had felt God was speaking to her, telling her to press on. Telling her that she just needed to wait a little longer, and everything would fall into place. She had been so naïve.

Toska might be a better word to describe what had possessed her. Her mother's language usually did better with emotions, because, from what Mama told her, Russians weren't afraid to feel. Toska was more specific than any English word she knew; it was translated as "melancholy, depression, boredom, ennui, weariness." Really, it was all those things, but mixed with longing, a longing for something in the past that would likely never again be, or for something in the future that was unlikely to ever materialize. But even Mama didn't understand. And even toska didn't give voice to it.

Words were not enough. But thank God that words weren't the only language. When words failed to tell and people failed to listen, she had a canvas to speak to, to speak on, to speak through. And of course, she had her God, the one who had given her life, who was supposed to comfort her. 

But Katrina had yet to feel comforted.

She was different, yes, she was oh, so different from the rest, and therein lay her problem. The rest of the world seemed to move through the five stages of grief in a linear fashion on a predictable timetable. Katrina, on the other hand, just couldn't let it go.