River Reflections

Everything is so tiring, Heather thought to herself, shuffling up the stairs with a bag of groceries in hand. Somewhere upstairs, the thudding of footsteps echoed back and forth. Probably those brattish children from next door, Heather thought. The thumping pounded like a hammer slamming nails into her head with each footstep. Tap tap tap. By now she had come to terms with her bitter cynicism, so she didn’t hold back the sharp, biting thoughts that seethed in her head.

Just shut up. Go away. Be quiet.

Heather took a deep breath. He wouldn’t want her to think like that. Bitter cynicism aside, she could at least muster up the strength to smother those sour, irate sparks for him. He would smile at the pattering sounds of a child playing make-believe in the cramped apartment building; he would tuck her hair behind her ear and remind her to soften her gaze. But even though he was kinder than she was, he understood. He understood the way her insides wrenched when she saw those children dancing around, teasing her… She could hear his gentle voice telling her to block it out and focus on him.

Heather smiled, just a bit, at the thought of returning home. She let out a sigh when she reached the top of the stairs. The little boy in the corridor shied away from her like a startled feral cat, running into his sibling’s ushering arms as they both disappeared behind the door of the neighbouring apartment.

With a sigh of relief, she unlocked her door and crossed into her apartment. Home at last. As soon as the door shut, the headache lapsed, and her bitterness evaporated. She put the bag of groceries on the table, stopping to prevent the colourful fruit on top from rolling out. In the absence of her headache, she realised just how truly tired she was, and sank into the wooden chair at the dining table. She could see her reflection in the decorative mirror beside her – she felt older than she looked. Wispy brown hair tied back into a ponytail, hazel eyes weighed down by dark bags that never seemed to disappear. When had she become this? It seemed like time was moving through her, a thick river tugging through her body and pulling the youth out of her. Where along the stream had she lost that childish reflection under the rushing water?

“Yvonne!” A voice echoed through her.

“What?” She responded. Had the call come from behind… in front of her?

She waited for her reflection to reach out and take her hand, but the girl in the mirror only stared back.

Her eyes opened. She didn’t realise they were closed.

She turned behind, but only saw her kitchen and the groceries on the table. When she turned back around, her eyes connected with the painting hanging behind the head of the table.

It was a beautiful landscape of a field at sunset; in the background, golden rays poured across the canvas like honey. In the foreground, a large, outstretched pear tree stood, backlit by sunlight so that the snowy-white blossoms seemed encased in a thin layer of gold. Underneath the pear tree, a man stood waving his hand to the viewer. The finer details of his appearance were vague, but Heather had a perfect picture of his face.

“Hi love.” The sound of his mellow, velvet-soft voice warmed her heart and she smiled; turning to face him.

“You seem tired,” he said, placing his hands on the back of her hair and leaning down to kiss the top of her head. “Big day?”

“Same old,” Heather replied, reaching back to hold his hand in hers. “Everything is so overwhelming outside. But I’m glad I’m home. With you.”

“It’s alright for you to take a break sometimes,” he responded, crossing behind her and opening the fridge to put the groceries away.

“You’re right,” Heather sighed, leaning back in her chair.

Heather’s knees began to ache; that dull feeling came with old bones, she reflected. At least he was here to look after her. How many years had gone by? Peacefully recollecting a long life and marriage, Heather thought of their wedding day. Before she met him in that old store, it had felt like her life was dripping through her fingertips like muddy silt. But he had helped her cross that river. He had filled that yawning hole inside her, that sucking emptiness – like quicksand – that tugged everything good and bright down, down, down, deep in her chest…

How people can change you, she thought to herself.

“Do you want something to eat?” He asked, stopping just outside her periphery, and crouching so that he was eye-level with her.

“No, that’s alright love,” Heather responded. “But I’d love a glass of water.”

The person in the mirror was elderly and frail. Her reflection was wrinkled and grey now; crow’s feet from a good life, a peaceful one too. That persistent headache had returned; the one from when she was younger.

My back hurts. Her legs tingled and she tapped her feet lightly on the ground.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Water droplets pattered the ground, dripping down the clumpy strands of hair across her face. Hands clawing at the sucking mud, pulling forwards.

“Yvonne?”

“Yvonne!?”

Voices repeated the name; frantic now. Her mother’s cold hands were pressing the sides of her face.

“Where’s your sister? Oh God, please God.”

A feeling that had crept inside her years ago suddenly flared and Heather became blindly aware of a shaking horror deep within. The dull throb of her disconnect from the world realised itself in this grief, this overwhelming loss and emptiness that surged inside her.

Heather tried to say something – there was mud in her mouth. Her throat was so dry; all she could manage was a cracked whisper.

“Love, a glass of water…”

Heather sat very still at the dining table. The room was ripe with the smell of rot and the harsh tang of fibrous, soft fruit. A young woman sat at the table, facing a painting of a pear tree.