Moth

I keep folding things. If folding things could make a barrier, I'd lay my fresh-scented origami between my heart and the grief threatening to crush it, and never hurt again.

I fold and fold and fold, because it's the simple and repetitive day to day things that help me pretend I'm sane. I fold trousers for a husband who already left. Clean shirts for a boy with a gaunt face I hardly recognise. Tiny socks for a baby that giggles, as if the world wasn't broken, and everything lost. Trousers for a man who isn't my husband, but who is sitting in his chair. I don't have the energy to tell him to move.

Liza stares at him with empty eyes, like scales. Glittering. Weighing him up. Is he handsome? Does she want his attention? Should she be angry that he's sitting there, where her father should be? Does she mind if he slips into that role?

She doesn't sigh. She walks away. Her bedroom door clicks.

Towels. Tablecloths. Shopping lists. Receipts. I fold them so that I don't fold. Because I'm as fragile and dusty as a moths wing and, and I might crumble clean away.

Isaiah made tea again.

The house stays neat and soft, like it’s hiding bruises. Isaiah keeps it clean without me asking. I stab myself with the memory of her, because the pain is solid and all I have left. When it fades, I'm numb, and maybe that's ok, too.

The thought of her, thrown, tangled and broken on the ground. Wicked little hooves dancing above her, maybe.

I flit from that thought to another very like it. The simple joy that had shone in her face all morning was fading rapidly. That glow, born of a birthday, and a surprise, and her beloved ponies... Already gone.

Memories are better. Memories hurt, but not like that. Flit flit flit. Fold fold. Bang bang banging against the pane of glass, with my other children on the other side. They wait for me to say something normal. Right the axis. Consult the map and take them by the hand. Bang bang bang.

I settle on a surface that matches me, and sigh into stillness. Pillows threaten to swallow me. I settle myself in my own cocoon, perhaps never to break free of it. That can happen. Can't it?

Liza taps on the door. It's school today. Okay. Will you do my hair. Okay. I don't ask if she's had breakfast. She kneels by the bed, and I force my self nearly to a sitting up position. Make my hands braid her hair. It's not so different. To folding.

Fold. Fold. Fold.

I freeze a moment. I'm running out of hair, and I have nothing to fasten it with-

-when did she go? When did I last sleep? How many days has it been, how many weeks, since It happened. I'll close my eyes just for a moment and-

-flit flit flit. Looking for a scrap of light -

I'm supposed to be sad that my husband is gone, but I don't think I have room for any more sadness.

Isaiah makes more tea.

Flit. Fold. Sleep. Will you do my hair for me? Sure. Sit up. Comb. Split. Braid braid braid. I'm so tired. I go to sleep for a while.

I think I'm forgetting what she looks like. I fold the memory and tuck it in my pocket.

One day, I look down, and Isaiah's arms are wrapped around my waist. His hands at my navel. Firm. Tanned. Do I still want them? I did once. I think. Sort of. It would be nice to feel something else for a while.

Flit. Flit. Fold.

+

Thank you for reading!