Caitlin McQuade

Starlight

It was well past four in the afternoon when Alice finally gave in. She laid down on the worn attic floor and let out a breath that had felt lodged in her chest for at least the last half hour. She had been working since early that morning, steadily sorting through boxes and discarded furniture, setting aside what could be sold or donated and what needed to be thrown away while the June heat in the small attic became more and more cloying. Now, as the heat finally began to fade she found herself covered in sweat and dust and wincing against sore muscles all through her legs and arms and into her neck and shoulders. Truthfully, the ache she felt settle through her body as she finally paused in her labors felt like a blessing. It felt like relief. For the past few weeks, ever since her mother had called her to tell her of Aunt Agnes’s passing, Alice had been so terrifically, terribly numb. Rationally, she knew that she was grieving, but as hard as she tried she couldn’t access that grief. Instead, her body and her mind had gone into sleep mode while they searched for the bug, the faulty wiring, the pain that was there but wasn’t. So she lay there, dirty and sticky and aching, and let herself feel at least that until the last of the midday heat seeped from the room and the slightest chill made itself known along her forearms.