Breadcrumbs

14th April, 1912

That morning, something was different.

As I climbed out of bed, I realized the shackles of the past had loosened around my ankles. I wandered ‘round the deck for a bit, relishing the lightness in my step. I sensed that today was a special day, that it was finally time to set my soul free, and I felt as much dread as I felt glee. T’was going to be no easy task indeed, not after the bird had lived in a cage for what felt like centuries. But one cannot breathe under the weight of memories, for they cling to the skin like a cloak of misery. So I bought a ticket to the Land of the Free, hoping the distance would help me. I put on a Sunday dress and left my cabin bright and early, as the sun was making the sky’s cheeks blush and the sea ripples gleam. I lay down on a deckchair and began my mental journey.

My first stop was the beach. In my mind, I walked along the shore with bare feet, holding my shoes by the laces, letting them sway in the salty sea breeze. And there I found it—the first breadcrumb. A tiny nugget of gold glimmering atop the sugar sand; I picked it up and slipped it in my pocket, remembering how we shivered and laughed each time the cold waves licked our toes. You used to say the sea was made of the tears of all the women who had to sacrifice something in order to simply survive in a world so nasty. You would say, “it’s plain to see: everything is so coarse, so rough, so cruel, it is as if women were brought onto this Earth to soften it, but by softening it, they lost themselves, just like honey melts in hot water.” Then you would look at me and tell me that you could see the honey in my eyes, dripping around the edges, and that’s why my tears were so sweet.

I put my shoes back on and walked down the hill into town. There I headed to the florist’s and looked around the azaleas and the anemones, lifting leaves and pushing pots, until I found the second breadcrumb, hidden in the sleepy bud of a moonflower. You took me here on Valentine’s Day, asked me to pick whatever blossoms my heart desired so the lady at the counter could arrange them into a large bouquet. I watered it every day until the first petal dropped, then hung it upside down so it would dry and become eternal—a young girl’s dream of undying love.

I made my way to the great ballroom, the one with the crystal chandeliers and the walls painted blue. The door was open, so I slipped inside like a shadow on a winter afternoon. A thrill cascaded down my spine as I remembered your gaze on my naked arms, warmer than the summer sun. You said, “I watched your graceful movements like smoke follows a flame. If I cannot hold your waist, may I at least hold your hand?” I found the third breadcrumb by the backdoor, the one we crossed, fingers interlaced like ivy and moss, as we sauntered into the forest.

The woods greeted me with birdsong and crunchy leaves, and I knew exactly where to find the fourth breadcrumb: ‘neath the salient root of the oak tree where you first kissed me, my back pushed against its trunk as your hands fiddled with my bodice. My father used to say the night was filled with monsters… vampires, werewolves, that would ravish my body, though I believe men see demons where God intended revelry.

T’was a long walk to the river but the bridge soon appeared. It creaked under my feet as I scoured each plank for the last breadcrumb. Finally I found it, near the pole where you engraved our initials. The wood still bore them proudly, though the edges had faded. I cried a bit then, as the wailing wind sounded like your voice, when you told me that our love was nothing but a curse.

“A woman cannot marry a woman, such is the world. If I cannot make you my wife, what right have I to rob you of your life?”

Shaken out of my trance by the sound of shattering glass, I sat up on the deckchair reserved for the upper class. It was nighttime now, and the cold air clung to my gown. I pulled out my pen to untangle the thoughts churning inside my head.

Breadcrumbs are all you ever gave me

Robbed from a loaf already stale

A portion of mercy and selfish delight

A cup of flour

A hundred drops of desire

But neither of us saw the fly

Though past our ears it did buzz loudly

Past our ears the breeze of whispered oaths

No more real than this “sacred” loaf

Bread made of air

But an empty stomach is not a fussy one

An empty stomach will gladly eat

The most insipid soup, as long as it is made of dreams

To a lone heart, a dead fly tastes like a chocolate chip

To a lone heart, a breadcrumb is a feast

Curiously, I dug a hand into my pocket… and there they were, the five breadcrumbs, rugged against my fingers. I fished them out and watched them shift in my palm, the pieces melding together to form a golden pendent in the shape of a hawk. The jewel you gave me when my heart you decided to lock, for a ring would have attracted people’s glares and given them a reason to mock.

“Wise, free and observant, with eyes full of honey, just like you…” I clenched my fist around it one last time, before I released it in the pearly waters of the sea with a faint whine.

I saw the bird rise and soar; it flapped its wings until I could see it no more.

And when I lowered my gaze, a pale mountain loomed ahead, growing closer as the ship advanced defiantly. I walked slowly across the deck, and as if I had orchestrated this moment with fate, I whispered, "Take me."