In a heartbeat

Old Mrs. Holden was the neighborhood watch out. To the neighbors, most days only seen as a head with peering eyes in the window of the yellow house at the end of the road. All day she would spend looking out the window, a cup of tea in hand. Watching out for strangers, making sure the neighbors’ grandchild didn’t kick his football in to her roses or anyone littering on her property and noting the coming and goings of everyone who set foot in to her street. From the time the sun rose until it set she would sit in the window watching the neighbors living their lives. The seasons were changing as time passed before her very eyes. Like sand it slid by her, through her fingers. But although time seemed ever flowing, her own life, on the other hand, had come to an abrupt halt when her beloved husband passed away.

One morning, after fifty-two years of companionship, her husband Dan, had died. She remembers nudging him as she got out of bed and calling back at him that today it would be eggs and bacon for breakfast. She did not think much of it when he didn’t answer back. All the years they had been married, she had learned not to bother him too much before he had had his first cigarette of the day. But the rest of the time he was the warmest, most loving husband, brother and father anyone could wish for. Mrs. Holden made the breakfast, got the paper and poured the coffee before she called on Dan again. The silence that answered back made her hart skip a beat, her lungs locking the air inside. In some way she imagined already knowing, and as she ran upstairs as fast as her bad knees would carry her, she had begun sobbing loudly.

What followed passed as in a daze. Dan lying pale in bed, his eyes looking past her and beyond to another world, to an angel calling his name, or maybe to death as it came to take him. The ambulance, the doctors, her daughter and her son-in-law. The funeral. It passed by as if she was watching it on TV, not really being involved in any way, unsure that her hart would ever start beating again after it had stopped that dreadful Sunday morning. Not actually caring for it to do so.

She suddenly found herself alone in a dark, empty house, sleeping on the couch because she was afraid of the big, empty bed, staying inside all day scared of the world that had gone from warm, safe and familiar, to cold and scary and big. Like it was rotting before her eyes the world grew even darker as its colour, its allure, withered. But most of all, Mrs. Holden was waiting; waiting for death to come take her to Dan, take her home. She was full, as if life had been this huge meal in which she had eaten greedily, but now suddenly was felling full up. And though the dinner-party went on, she had pushed her chair from the table, risen, and was waiting impatiently under the green, glowing exit-sign.

From the moment she had met Dan, properly introduced as a son of a friend of her aunt, she had openly put her hart in his hands. Unheard of at it was in those days, she had cast coquetry aside, not willing to waste time fulfilling her destiny as she so clearly saw it; becoming Dan’s wife. Marriage followed a few months later and as pearls on a string, predictable and quite ordinary, house and children, even a picket fence, followed in its natural order. But as ordinary as their life seemed to be, their love was nothing more than extraordinary. It was that kind of love that made love-songs great, and novels read by thousands. Dan was her lover and her life partner and life did not, could not, go on without him.

March 22nd started out as any other day, and they all started the same way nowadays. She got up, put on Dan’s blue robe and inhaled its aroma. It had been several months since the funeral, and his smell was all gone from this woolly piece of garment. She reminded herself to get another piece of his clothing from the hamper, fearing that she would forget how Dan had smelled. Or worse, forget him all together. Her daily, monotonous routine started with a quick trip to the bathroom and like a robot she brushed her teeth and combed her hair, careful not to look in the mirror, scared of the old woman with the empty eyes that would look back at her. Next it was the kitchen, making herself the usual cup of tea with one sugar and a drop of milk and a piece of bread with cottage cheese. She put that and today’s newspaper on a tray and carried it to the small mahogany table by the window. She sat down just in time to see Jenny Leman kiss her husband, Thomas, goodbye. Her eyes instantly started to water up by the very sight of this familiar sign of affection, so she turned her head to the right awaiting young Robert taking his dog for a walk before school, always precise. What a precious boy, Mrs. Holden thought to herself, taking a sip of her tea and looking down the road for the boy.

What she saw made her hart rush to her throat, the porcelain cup sliding form her fingers and shattering at her feet. In Briarsons garden, right by the big oak tree, stood Death. His black coat blowing in the wind, his reap hook by his side and his dark hooded head facing her house, her window. And Mrs. Holden instantly knew that Death had finally come for her too. He was waiting for her, and now she could go be with Dan. Her feelings was those of relief, and calm, welcoming the thought that it would be over soon, that she and Don would be together again. Her hart finally made its presence clear as it started beating feverish. If death came for her now, she had so much to organize!

She had to clean the house, so it would look presentable for when they found her. And she too needed to get cleaned up, she suddenly realized. Would she have time to go to the hairdresser, she wondered. Her hair was a mess, looking, she imagined, like an abandoned bird nest. Maybe she could also buy a new dress for the funeral? And what about all Dan’s things? She needed to give it away to charity. She felt a little embarrassed that she hadn’t mustered the strength to do that yet. Certainly Death would grant her time to call her daughter, which whom she hadn’t spoke n with since the funeral. She needed desperately to apologize for not being there for her daughter, for not remembering that her daughter had lost a father and, to some extent, also a mother.

Would she have time for a quick visit, and maybe see her grandson one more time? The boy must have grown so much since the last time she saw him. When was that?, she tried to recall. He had Dan’s eyes and the dimple on his right cheek he got from her. He was five now, and already a big boy. She suddenly realized how much she had missed holding him and telling him stories. She missed the smell of his soft skin, lemon and milk, and his chubby hands holding on to her old, frail fingers.

Oh, but death would give her time to do all this?! And to go see a lawyer, off course. She needed to draw up her last will and make sure that her old friend Julia got the green emerald necklace she had always envied. Come to think of it, she had not spoken to Julia since Dan’s funeral. Avoiding even her best friend, she had pulled the plug on her phone, and hid behind locked doors whenever, if ever, anyone should find their way up her driveway. I hope everything is well with Julie, Mrs. Holden thought to herself, remembering how frail Julia had looked the last time they saw each other.

She stood up and knocked on the window, calling attention to herself, signalling to the hooded figure outside, with a finger tapping her watch, that she needed time, more time. Could he come back tomorrow maybe? Or next week? Come to think of it, one more Christmas with the family would be nice, and she and Julie had always talked about taking a photography-class one summer in Paris. Could your reason with death, she asked herself.

She kept knocking on the window, but Death did not move. He doesn’t understand my signals, Mrs. Holden thought. I must go talk to him. She stepped over the broken pieces of her tea cup and walked quickly to the hallway. Hastily she put on her grey slippers and stepped out as the early morning sun rose higher in the sky, its light caressing her face. In her mind, as she hastily walked down the sidewalk towards Death, she decided that she would just explain to him that although she had waited and prayed for him to come take her, she had just a few tiny things she needed to do before she went. A few days she wanted to live life again. Just a few. Maybe a year or two. Surely Death would be reasonable?

Her steps had slowed, her mind wandered and when the neighbour’s dog jumped towards her on the other side of the fence, barking aggressively, it gave her a sudden start and she leaped backwards. Her left slipper slid of her foot as she lost her footing and fell into the road, just as Mr. Collins backed his big truck hastily out of his driveway. Always late for work his reckless driving made him a menace everyone kept an eye out for. She felt a sharp pain as the truck hit her at full speed and threw her back against the fence and on to the sidewalk.

As she lied on the pavement, her life bleeding out of her, her hart fighting for one more second, one more breath, she mustered a last effort and turned her head towards the place Death had stood earlier. The question was written in her eyes; why hadn’t he given her more time? What she saw erased the question mark burning in her eyes, and replaced it with astonishment. Were Death had stood, now hanged a big black canvas, caught in the branches of the old oak tree, half hidden by the butting spring leaves. As the wind rose, it caught hold of the canvas and Mrs. Holden saw Death reappear as she had seen it from her window earlier.

Mrs. Holden’s hart had finally stopped. Her blood coloured the black pavement red as it folded our around her body like angel wings. Her last thought had been one of regret. Regret for the months spent by the window, watching as life went on and she did not. Now, in an instant it had all changed, and Mrs Holden had gotten what she had prayed for, just in time to realise that she didn’t want it at all. A heavy breeze came and took hold of the canvas, freed it from the branches' grasp and flew it away, far far away.

Muse in a box

A little brass bell rings as I push the door open, alarming the shopkeeper of my arrival. He turns from the shelves and smiles at me. He is tall and thin with dark, black hair, and brown eyes. I notice he has a warm smile, and he reminds me somewhat of a librarian. His soft voice fills the small space as he greets me with a heartily “Hello”, followed by the usual, “May I help you?” I meet his smile, and with a quick glance around onto the many shelves, I nod, realizing I will never find what I am looking for on my own. He gestures at the counter and we both move towards it. As he walks behind it, putting the old wood and glass bureau that serves at a counter between us, he asks, “Are you looking for something special?” I answer honestly that I don’t know what I want, what I need.

In my mind I add that this was an impulse, suddenly seeing the shop where I have never noticed a shop before, squeezed in between a pharmacy and a hairdresser. And the sign, in bold antique-looking letters, reading “Inspiration”, found my attention. And inspiration is just what I need, I thought to myself. The shop, with its big, dusty, windows and brown, frail-looking wooden door instantly called to me, and welcomed me in. Going in I did not know what to expect and I was both excited and nervous.

My trail of thought is interrupted by the shopkeeper who is waiving his hands and motioning bizarre gestures while he explains, “We just got in some more inspiration yesterday which is all the rave nowadays. I can hardly keep up with the demand!” He smiles at me, his hands frozen mid-air, and clearly awaiting my not-so-enthusiastic: “And what is hot these days?” “Oh my, haven’t you noticed?”, he asks rhetorically. “Vampires, baby!” He leans forward over the counter, way across my comfort-zone and almost shouts it out, as if I was hard of hearing. He continues his tirade with his arms waving flamboyantly, “The supernatural put in natural context. Like its ordinary. Reality meets sub-reality”, he lowers his voice and adds, “It’s sensuality and it’s sexy, the danger, the biting. What is forbidden is always what we lust for.” His cheeks turn red by the very thought, and he straitens up, dusting his shirt for some imaginary dirt, clearing his throat.

“I don’t think I want to write about vampires”, I tell him. I look around for words to explain what I want, not sure what it really is. “I just..”, I begin, “I just want to write about life and love, small reflections of the world as I see it. I need inspiration to create characters and bring them to life in a short story or essay. I miss the feeling of words flowing effortlessly, and the heart pounding with haste because I know I’m creating“, my voice fades, and my eyes catches hold of his, awaiting his reply. I feel I need to add, “You see, I’m not a writer, I just do it like on a hobby-basis. To relax, to flee from the world a bit. You understand?”

His eyes light up as if turned on by the light bulb I imagine going off over his head, and he starts gesturing enthusiastically again. “I have just what you need!” He walks quickly to a small table in the middle of the room with a lot of different boxes on it. He picks up a light blue box with a thin white ribbon on it, not bigger than a jewelry box. “This one is perfect for you”, he says as he walks towards me, holding out the box carefully like he was carrying a precious gem, or a raving mad cat. Picturing just that, I smile. My eyes are locked on the box, and though I still don’t know what it contains, I already feel the need to own it. I want it. “This is inspiration for beginners”, he tells me. “It’s a bit of everything; love-stories, science-fiction, mystery and poetry, to mention a few. This is inspiration for short-stories. This is”, he adds solemnly, “inspiration for you”.

I’m instantly hooked and without thinking of what it costs, I reply, “I’ll take it!” He rings it up and hands me the box in a grey paper bag with the picture of a pen and a piece of paper on it. I take it and a bit embarrassed I ask, “How do I do it? How does it work?” He smiles at me, suddenly calm and serious. “You go home, and open the box. Make sure you are alone. And then you start writing, and inspiration will fill you with words and joy will ring clear in your heart as you write your stories of love and loss, and the world as you see it. The inspiration will roll over your mind as a tidal wave washes the shore, and brings with it the bounty of the deep sea. It will leave you as a lover leaving your bed at night, the sheets still warm from his skin and you blossoming with the sense of satisfaction and rebirth” He exhales as I hold my breath with the want for everything he just described.

I thank him for all his help and patience, and turn to walk away. As I walk out the door, he calls out at me, “Come back and see me next month! I’m getting in a supply of folklore inspiration which is all the rave in America now!”