Whispers on a Bench

                                                                    Whispers on a Bench


                                                              ……………………………….
                                                                    As it is….so it shall be…


    I open my eyes.  The grey dawn creeps through my curtains. A light breeze flutters the fabric.  Birds sing.  I do not.  I lay there.  Images play in my mind over and over.  I can not move.  I am paralyzed with pain.  In my heart.  Sheryl is gone. 

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                                                                              Need

    It was hard to shake.  The image of her hanging there.  Her life drained by her own hands.  I cut her down.  My hands shaking so bad.  So bad.  I held her limp body close to mine.  They said I was crying when the paramedics arrived.  Crying and rocking.  Sheryl in my arms.  On the floor.  Crying and rocking.  Was I singing?  I do not remember.  I do remember seeing.  Just her face.  So peaceful.  So beautiful. 

    The disease.  The depression.  I could not help her.  I tried.  We met at the shelter.  I volunteered a few days a week.  She came in one day.  She was beautiful.  And sick.  I made her my project.  We talked a lot.  She lived on the streets.  Her hair was black.  Long and flowing.  With pale skin and piercing green eyes.  I took her in.  She never felt comfortable.  But we became lovers.  I cannot bear to think of that closeness now.  I ache for her touch.

  She told me about her cancer.  She whispered it in my ear.  We were making love.  She held me tight.  Like I might run.  I did not.  I cried.  But I was silent.

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                                                                              Discovery

    Today I walk.  I walk in an endless, meandering way.  The sky is angry.  Swollen with moisture.  Dark and restless.  I can taste it.  That fat, moist taste.  This is nothing new in south Miami.  I stop.  Merrie Park is alive.  Children are playing.  Laughing.  I find no happiness in their sing-song voices.  A lady sits on a bench.  I am weary, my legs weak.  I sit down.  I do not speak to her.  I want no conversation.  She does not move.  I look away.  Everything is grey to me.  I am grey inside.  Dying.  Images of Sheryl flit across my vision.  A group of children go by on their bikes.  They are loud.  Too close with those bikes, they almost run over our feet.  She does not move.  Vacant eyes stare ahead.  Her presence disturbs me.  I don’t know why.  I look away.  There is nothing alive in me.  I am numb.

    “She is fine.”

    My thoughts are broken.  The woman does not move.  I am sure she spoke.  Just a few words.  From her lips.

    I look at her. “Excuse me?”  I say.  She does not respond.

    There is something unsettling about this woman.  She wears a dress…. no, a gown.  A blue gown.  Too formal.  Out of place.  Lace and frillies.  The edges tremble in the breeze.  Her hair is wild.  Untamed.  It falls around her stoic face.  She is there but she is not.  She is like a fraction of a whole.  I feel odd.  I cannot stay here.  I stand.  Words come to me but I cannot speak them.  I start walking.  I cannot walk fast enough.  I am repulsed.  By the oddness of the moment.  My heart races.  I am several blacks away before it calms.  I do not remember walking home.

                                                                  …………………………………..
                                                                            Understanding

    In my bed.

    I am safe in my cocoon of dreams.  Safe from the horrors of my daily life.  My walking, living torment.  My Hell.  I curl inside this painless place.  Things go by in a blur.  Shadows move.  There is a sound…there!  I do not know what it is….a repetitive, wearing sound.  Something is pulling me from my warmth…drawing me out….the sound grows louder…I am looking at my cocoon now…floating quietly along side, curled like a baby…the noise continues…penetrating my mind like a malignant cell…something wet touches my cheek...then another…and another….they trail down, these moist drops, to pool at the corner of my mouth.  I turn my head, peering upward.  My eyes adjusting.  The sound drills into my skull now….it..it is coming…from…

    Sheryl swings above me.  Gently, as if a breeze has set her in motion.  The rope continues it monotonous drone.  Her tears drop..drop..drop…rushing onto my tongue as I open my mouth to scream.  Her dead, glassy eyes are full of love.  It is okay, they say to me.  It is okay.  Listen to them, David… listen…I am terrified.  I push with all my soul, all my being, to the surface, where I….sit up.  In my bed.  Sweat covers my body like oil.  Full, gasping breaths tear from my throat.  My heart thunders in my ears.  My hands grip the loose sheets around me for anchor.  I know.  I know now.  I know now there is no refuge …

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                                                                                  Search

      My coffee is tepid.  I did not bathe today.  Or yesterday.  Nor have I shaved.  My dirtiness covers me like a second skin.  It feels comfortable.  It is not needy.  I have nothing to give, anyway.  My world is still grey.  I’m not sure if this is real, or just my world.  I will not eat.  Food has no meaning for me.  Hunger has left me.  Yet I feel a need.  Something pushing me.  I get up, slip on my jacket.  My slippers will be enough.  They are only shoes.

    I leave the house.  I do not know where I will go.  A man and woman stand on the sidewalk at the corner.  They argue.  I pass by.  A boy drops a letter in a mailbox.  The red stick man turns green, flashes.  Telling me I can walk.  Walk now, he implies.  I continue walking.

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                                                                                Memory

    “Do you think death is final?” Sheryl asked me once.  We were sitting on a jetty wall at Sunrise Harbor, eating Chinese from those white paper cartons.  She was better with the chopsticks. 

    “I don’t know” I said.  “Sometimes I think it can’t be.  Everything comes from something… I think.”  I stared at the carcass of a dead gull in the sand.  Flies swarmed for position.  The noodles felt bloated and wet in my mouth.  I looked at Sheryl.  She was chewing on an egg roll and crying.  Crying and staring at the harbor.  Salty tears rolled to the corners of her mouth and disappeared.  Like soy sauce for the soul.  The conversation died.  We were silent.  Fried pork.  Noodles.  Mortality. Wonton.  Chop Sticks…..

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                                                                                Commitment                   


    I am in the park again.  People stare at me, this broken shell.  I shuffle along the winding walkway.  I see nothing of consequence.  Not yet.  I shuffle more.  A dog barks to my left.  I hear children.  I wish I could be a child again.  I shuffle along more…until I see the bench. 

    She is still there.  I approach the bench.  Her hair is filled with sparkling dew drops.  Like a spidery veil.  My slippers sparkle, too.  They are  dewy…like her sparkling hair.  She has not moved.  After all these days, she has not moved.  I know this.  I stop.  I have a reason.  A reason to be here.  I sit down next to her.  There is a quiet calm to this moment.  I look at her.  Just a glance.

    “You have seen….” The words fall from her lips.  She does not acknowledge me, yet she speaks directly to me.  I nod.  The words echo in my head.  They are the final words of truth.  They are what I long for.

    I know now that this is where I should be.  I focus on the trees ahead.  The children.  The swing set across the walk.  I feel the cocoon.  It seduces me like a lover.  Caressing me with promises.  I relax.  I feel stoic.  The world around me starts to fade.  Opaque.  I speak.

    “Can you show me… more?” I ask the emptiness that has become my vision.  She only sits.  Silent.  Seeing.  Not Seeing.

    I glance at her.  A smile pulls at the corners of her mouth.

    I give in to my lover.  I will not fight.  I cannot fight.  The noise, the sounds are fading.  I am here now.  This is where I belong.  I feel something on my shoulder.  It is quiet here.  I sense things beyond the quietness, though.  I turn my head slightly.  It is Sheryl.  She is beside me.  Her head rest limply on my shoulder.  I see the end of the rope in her lap.  I do not need to see to know it is still around her neck.  Her neck is bruised, and red. Ugly red…and purple.  I do not need to see to know this.  She sighs.  She is happy.  I am happy.

    Monica and Chad are happy, too.  I do not need to see to know this.  I can feel her smile, this Monica-on-the-bench.  I know her lover, Chad, has also found his place beside her on this bench.  I think Monica is a good lover to Chad.  She is very gentle with Chad.  His bloodied, bullet-shattered skull fits nicely in the crook of Monica’s neck. 

    So here we sit.  We are all happy now, on this bench. 


                                                                …………………………………..
                                                                          Ouroboros, et el.

    It has rained.  I sense that.  Someone sits down on the edge of the bench.  A shadow on the edge of my world.  Sad, distraught.  Anguished young woman.  I sense her pain…..

    She does not have to worry.  I know why she is here.  I can see him.  Her  lover.  He is waiting…….

    Now, I will tell her….I think.  Just a few words…just a few words to let her know….


                                                                                The End


Copyright  © 2009 by  C.B. Suggs