The Shortest Day

The Shortest Day

Fiction

1

She had waved a small frail hand at me as a quick goodbye. No hug, as she was going to see me again soon. We’d have all the time to talk later. She wasn’t much of a hugger, even through cancer. The next day I answered a frantic phone call from my dad saying I needed to come to the house right away. I never got to hug her and tell her I loved her. No goodbye. And she never got to start up a business, plant more flowers in her garden, cook new recipes, play more games with her grandchildren, read anymore mystery books, or look at trashy magazines with me, critiquing celebrity outfits while waiting in the chemo room.

Now I stay up as long as my eyes stay open. Friends call me a night owl. I take pride in that. The productivity, the feeling I’m the only one not only in my family, but of all my friends, and fantasizing possibly the whole Western hemisphere, who wasn’t asleep, who doesn’t conform to the demands of sleep. Others give in, but not me. Nightly I refuse to succumb without a fight. Always maximizing my time.

But dad is blunt.

“You’re only harming yourself,” he said.

I just say, “Leave me alone. I get a lot done that I don’t get done during the day. It’s not affecting me.’

“But you’re snapping at me, you make mistakes with my bills, you forget things. Pretty soon, you’ll be forgetting to eat,” dad continued.

I didn’t tell him it already was happening.

“I’m fine. It happens to everyone,” I insisted.

2

It was about 2:30 am and I was trying out my latest banana bread recipe. Even with three loaves already in the freezer, and one half eaten in the fridge. I had to recreate the moistness of mom’s. They either too moist, too dry, too dense or too fluffy. I posted on FB to see if anyone might have a tip. A friend from Spain, Lourdes, messaged back within a couple minutes.

“Wow! You’re up late!” Lourdes said.

“I guess. But not for YOU guys over there!” I said.

“Haha. So what exactly do you need to know?” Lourdes asked.

“In search of the perfect texture banana bread,” I said.

“I get it, but for who? Everyone’s ‘perfect’ is different,” Lourdes asked.

“Aren’t there SOME absolutes left?” I joked.

“Some, yes, but not sure about this one,” she added an emoji looking up.

“Well, what gets YOU to ‘perfect’?” I asked.

“About 1.5 sticks butter and 4 bananas,” Lourdes said.

“No! really? ! That’s way more butter than I use, but I’ll try it. Thank you,” I said.

“You’re welcome. So is this new? Or have you always been a night owl?” Lourdes asked.

The curser flashed as I held my breath thinking of an answer, as if I were trying to explain an anomaly.

“Sleep is for the weak!” I joked, adding a laughing emoji.

I quickly mixed the extra softened butter and bananas together, then poured it into a baking pan, stuck it in the oven, closed it and set the timer.

“Sorry for the noise. Just mixing as we speak,” I said.

It started with going to bed at 10, then 11, then 12, then 1, 2, then 3, and waking up at 7 to get Hannah off to school.

“So what else are you doing during the night? I just toss and turn, trying to force sleep,” Lourdes salad.

“I bake, do laundry, journal, tidy things, work out. Things that don’t need a lot of thought,” I said.

“Wow. Well you’re definitely doing more than me!” Lourdes said.

“I try,” I said.

I left out that I dread winter almost as much as sleep. Shortest days. So I start counting the number of days on my calendar from Summer Solstice, to the Winter Solstice, and then counting them again to the Summer. Preparing. I also didn’t tell her that I see the year as a vertical football, with summer at the top when daylight lasts till 10 pm, and winter at the bottom, when darkness falls at 4 pm, and sleep calls sooner. That strange visual might’ve prompted her to ask if I was really ok.

The beginning of July for most people means summer parties into the night, playing in the sprinklers, lazy swims in rivers, over-grilling hot dogs to a crisp. All those were good, but only a temporary respite, because following that were days of bone chilling cold, fear of driving off the icy road, limited outdoor activities, nasty flus. Worst of all, fatigue that pulled me down like a weighted blanket that’s supposed to comfort but suffocates instead. It marked a countdown to darkness.

3

Mom never liked birds. Not because they weren’t beautiful, agile, mysterious, whimsical, or graceful. In fact, it was for all those reasons that she loved and hated them at the same time. It was their very delicate frames that she was afraid of.

She’d say with a shudder, “They’re so tiny. And the minute you catch one, they go crazy and do everything to break free. I’m afraid of crushing them in my hands. They might die.”

Her hands themselves were so small and delicate. The irony of this fear never made sense.

One day, years before when she could still do her artwork, and pain and fatigue didn’t wrack her body, a duck crashed into our mudroom. The sound of hundreds of shards of glass made us come running from the living room in seconds. It was frantically trying to escape as soon as it realized its mistake. The only time she was upset we’d had really clean glass. Shutting the door to the kitchen, my dad took a broom and managed to shoo it out the door leading outside within a couple minutes.

But during that time, the duck kept quacking loudly, thumping against the walls, feathers flying in the air, leaving a trail of destruction of mom’s artwork and supplies. Sumi-e, or Japanese brush paintings, on thin rice paper strewn about the floor, muddied and wet with duck footprints, expensive paint brushes scattered. Black ink in white ceramic containers overturned into pools on her white desk, flowing to the edge and dripping onto the usually spotless tiled floor.

Art books were the only thing untouched as they sat tightly pressed against each other in neat alphabetical order on the shelves. Dad joked that they would’ve been the only thing intact after a tornado. I helped her clean up as best I could. But while the supplies could be salvaged, she felt much of the artwork couldn’t.

“You spent months on those. They should be saved,” I said.

“Wasted time. They’re ruined. Now you see why I hate birds? They’re stupid, and unpredictable,” Mom said.

“They’re wild animals. They..” I said.

With hands shaking, she crumpled up the paintings and threw them into a trashcan.

I later pulled them out and unrumpled them, secretly keeping them pressed in a thick phonebook, as every mention of them brought anger. She didn’t pick up a brush for at least a year, and when she did, she was too weak and her illness forced her to stop.

4

The paintbrushes still sit in their ceramic cup, alongside the ink wells where Mom left them.

Hannah runs up to me, throwing her backpack on the desk, nearly knocking them over.

“Mom! Mom! You have to come see this! I think it’s a baby bat!” Hannah shouted.

“Oh! Did you touch it? They have rabies, you know,” I said.

She rarely got excited over things, so I followed her outside to the patio, and she crouched on the ground, pointing to a small, empty cracked ceramic flower pot. I looked inside and there was a bat, black as charcoal. I peered closer to see if it was injured and it let out a small shriek. I was a little startled, but Hannah literally jumped about a foot back and let out her own shriek.

“I poked it before you came out to see what would happen, but it didn’t move, so I thought it was dead. Could you call those animal people?” Hannah asked.

“You mean animal control?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Hannah said.

“I can, but not sure what they can do, or even if they’d be willing to come out just for this,” I said.

“Could you please just CALL?” Hannah asked.

“Ok, but I’ll also Google it, to see what we can do about it in the meantime, in case they can’t come out,” I said.

“Ok, but hurry! It might be dying!” Hannah pleaded.

“Alright, alright, just calm down,” I said.

I called and got the predicted response.

“I called Animal Control and they said they were too busy, and to just put a stick into the pot so it could crawl out,” I said.

“It’s too little! It doesn’t know how to,” Hannah said.

“It’s nature, Hannah. Things die out there all the time without us even knowing about it. It’s just what happens,” I explained.

She cried and stomped off to her room.

5

Fall arrived with the Harvest Moon. And as serene as the moon was, it just reminded me of the closeness of winter.

I fight slumber like someone who’s outdoors in near zero temps trying to avoid falling under the spell of sleep from fear of freezing to death. When sleep eventually overtakes me, it often brings dreams of her being wheeled into an ambulance, trying to resuscitate her, arguments with her.

Hannah started leaving little bits of food outside. The food eventually brought mice. They were field mice and admittedly cute, but nothing I wanted anything to do with as they’d already invaded our home before. I didn’t want to give them a welcome mat.

“I see you’re leaving quite a bit of food out and it’s drawing a lot of little visitors,” I said.

“Yeah. Isn’t that great?!” Hannah asked.

“I guess, as long as it’s not too close to the house. You know they like making a home in the house, right?” I asked.

“I know. But they’re so cute! And they should be warm too, just like us. You’re always telling us to help others,” she said.

“Uh, yeah, but that’s more for humans, not ani…” I said.

“You know what you’re being? A hypo, hypo,...” Hannah said.

“Are you calling me a hypocrite?” I said.

“Yeah,” Hannah said.

“That’s not very nice. Do you really know what that word means?” I asked.

“Yeah! When someone says one thing but does another!” Hannah said.

“Well, while that’s true, that’s not what I’m doing,” I said.

“Whatever,” Hannah snapped.

6

I get so tired during the day, requiring at least 6 cups of coffee to keep me alert. Then I take short naps just to be functional. I’d set my timer, just like at night, but unlike setting it every hour on the hour, it’s set it for 10 minutes. I’d work on my resume, helping my dad do the dishes, helping Hannah with projects, making dinner, delivering food orders, all in a state of haze. Having to repeat simple actions like making sure I’d closed the front door, or double checking if I’d actually signed my name on a check. Sleep is the siren that keeps calling me. I now look enviously at anyone who could hop out of bed in the morning and easily hop back in at night, going through their nightly routine, unaware of the dread it brings me.

Driving Hannah one day to a school, I briefly closed my eyes at a stop light. Next I heard car horns loudly beeping behind me, and Hannah yelling, “Mom! The light is green!”

I quickly put my foot on the accelerator.

7

One night I had fallen asleep on the couch. I woke up startled to the sound of a ‘long harsh sounding scream” right outside the window. I thought I’d dreamt it. A sound that was ethereal and almost disturbing.

I stepped outside and found owl pellets. Maybe the solution to the mice was the owl that left them. As a kid, the regurgitated remains of the prey -tiny bones and fur- turned my stomach. Now they put a smile on my face, as the rodents started to disappear. Devouring the necessary. Eliminating the unnecessary and indigestible, as unpleasant as that might be.

“Hey, mom- Did you notice the mice haven’t been showing up lately?” Hannah asked.

“Yes, kinda weird how that happened,” I said.

“I’m worried about them,” Hannah said.

The next night the owl returned. I had sat on the couch more than alert this time,waiting. The nocturnal creature’s wings made no sound, but glimmered in the moonlight. It was a soft creme white, with an oddly angled concave face. A barn owl I thought. Some say their heart- shaped faces shows their ability to think with both the heart and mind. Some think that because they could see in darkness, they also have exceptional knowledge and understanding. They could see what others couldn’t. Some even think they symbolize death. That part makes no sense to me as they’re full of life, flying throughout the night, looking for, and pursuing prey.

It turned its head completely around suddenly, as if startled that I was inside looking at it. I wondered how its mother had taught it. Was it all learning by imitation? Instinctual? And why could turn its head 360 degrees?

I was envious of it. Its agility, fearlessness. It seemed to have no enemies. And it chose to defy sleep. It had no frightful dreams and no menial to-do lists that kept it up at night. Just a sole, straightforward purpose of catching prey.

8

Morning light shone on my face, waking me up naturally. Somehow I’d slept through my last alarm. Upset, I looked at my phone to see what went wrong.

“Mama?” Hannah asked.

“Yes?” I asked.

“ I heard something like a ghost last night. Did you?” Hannah asked.

“Yes. I think one has been catching your mice,” I said.

“Oh no!! A ghost?” asked Hannah.

“No, a barn owl. They don’t hoot like other owls, ” I said.

Well, I’m gonna try to get it,” Hannah said.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said.

An elaborate process of trying to set up a trap began. A weighted box and a stick with a ‘Y’ shape at the top holding one side of the box up, with a couple morsels of red meat in the center.

“Where did you learn to do that?” I asked.

“From watching Wild World and Youtube,” Hannah said.

“You want to catch it?” I asked.

“Yeah! But don’t worry. I’ll release it as long as I get a good look at it,” Hannah promised.

“You know, they’re not meant to be caught. It might get injured flying around inside that box,” I said.

“It’ll be fine, Mom. It’ll only be for a short time. Or maybe if it’s friendly, we can keep it,” Hannah said.

“Well, hate to say it, but I’m not sure that contraption is going to work. It might just scare it away. Besides, I’m not sure they will just eat something that’s not live. We’d never get to see it again. And no, there’s no way we’re keeping it even if we do catch it. They’re wild animals. They can’t be tamed,” I said.

“But they CAN be! I saw a Reel once where a lady caught a wounded owl and nursed it back to life and it ended up staying at her house! It would sit on her arm, fly to her when she called it, eat right out of her hand and even cuddle with her. It was soooo cute.I read that for Native Americans, they’re symbols of rebirth, whatever that means. I just think they’re real tough and brave. They wouldn’t be scared away by something like a box,” Hannah said.

I decided to try to capture it myself, but with my camera.

9

Lying again on the couch at 3 am, I heard a rustling and soft thud of the box. Wearing only socks so I wouldn’t make a sound, I grabbed my phone, swiftly and quietly as possible went to the window and peered out. The box had actually fallen, to my surprise and was moving wildly about. A dancing box- I let out a small laugh. Creeping outside to the spot, trying to figure out what to do, how to open it up without the owl flying away or getting injured. First I thought I’d just lift it up and snap a picture as it was flying away. But then thought better of it. Stupidly, I decided to try to lift it up as wide as the phone, and take a couple shots. Slowly I lifted it up, and the bird made no sound. I’d forgotten to turn the flash on. I put the box back down, and adjusted the flashbulb setting. LIfting up the box again, it seeming to claw at the sides. Heart pounding now. I snapped a couple photos and quickly closed the box. I would finally know what kind of owl this was. I looked at the images. But instead of an owl, I saw images of a small badger baring its teeth.

10

Winter Solstice had arrived. The day with the least light. The time I needed to be most productive. Dusting, tidying, organizing, rearranging. I started to lightly dust the stuffed Great Horned Owl on the mantle.

When I was little, my dad brought it home. He had found on the road. It was always a mystery to me how an animal so wise could’ve ended up there. Was it just old age? Disease? Regardless, it stood above the fireplace, mounted on a steel post sitting with its sharp talons on a wooden block, an insult to its grandeur, and all the unimaginable lofty places it must’ve sat prior. A prize specimen for a taxidermist, who replaced its golden eyes with cold pieces of plastic.

The desire to preserve its beauty and its austerity looming greater than what this great creature deserved. To be left alone, not stuffed in this unnatural state. I wondered if other owls came to it after, like elephants who return to the site of their lost ones, grieving for years after.

How high up on a tree must an owl sit to see their prey? I imagined their great perspective, perched patiently in the tree, and recalled how I also had an amazing view sitting near the top of my favorite pine tree.

I had to get out. I needed to see an owl in the open.

I decided to revisit the pine of my childhood that made me feel invincible, strong, whole, courageous, and hopefully see a barn owl too. Something mom wouldn't have approved of, had she known. Something in later years I wouldn't have dreamed of from fear of heights, until now. I remembered sitting high up, after having climbed all its sturdy branches. The sticky sap sticking to my hands and clothes. I kept telling myself I should be happy with the lower branches. But I kept moving higher. The sheer exhilaration of climbing, of doing something dangerous in secret.

So I made a plan of action 30 years later. I took a 30 minute nap, then drank 4 cups of coffee. I didn’t want to feel sleepy. I wanted the whole experience.

11

I drove my car to my old home, parking my car on the street. No cars in the driveway. My old friend had grown much taller. Or maybe it seemed that way, now that I was faced with climbing it, unlike how things usually appear from childhood- houses smaller, schools less intimidating, car washes less exciting. It loomed above, casting a shadow over the ground around it, and casting doubt on my resolution to climb it. It was not one of those ‘happy little trees’ Bob Ross always talked about. The thought of bugs crawling on me almost made me think twice.

I slowly approached my previous home and knocked quietly. Then louder. The sound of a tv- someone was home, yet no answer. It was now or never. Looking around quickly, to see if anyone was near, I began the ascent. Grabbing the first small branch about two inches in diameter, it broke. I then tried a second branch about the same size. It also broke. I finally stood on my tiptoes to grab hold of a third one that looked steadier, about three inches, and it seemed to hold. I then hoisted myself, like an awkward gymnast, onto my stomach, then reaching out and grabbing hold of another branch, I pulled myself up further. A couple minutes in, I tried not to look down but eventually did, estimating I’d already reached at least 20 feet up. Heart started beating faster. I continued to climb, telling myself to do at least five branches at a time. So I counted. I’d counted about 35 branches and knew if I looked down now, I’d get vertigo, so decided not to.

No owl yet. I decided to google them. They only needed a perch high enough to spot prey from about 45 feet away. And they hunted at night out of necessity. They didn’t do it because they couldn’t sleep. They were just engineered that way.

I then decided to return as it was near sunset. As in childhood, I’d lost total track of the time. I thought I’d been in the tree for half an hour. Looking at the phone, it had actually been about two. I decided to look up other night habits of owls. But when I accidentally looked down, I froze.

12

Suddenly my phone rang.

“Momma- Where are you?” Hannah asked.

“I really can’t talk now,” I said.

“You always say that. I need you to help me with my homework,” Hannah said.

“Listen, this is not a good time. Could you please just wait?” I said.

“What’s wrong?” Hannah asked.

“I”m kind of stuck,” I said.

“What do you mean?” Hannah asked.

“In a tree. But don’t worry, I’ll get down,” I said.

“YOU?! In a tree?! Aren't you scared of heights?” Hannah asked.

“What makes you think that?” I asked.

“The way you hold on real tight to the airplane seat and do your deep breathing,” Hannah said.

“I didn’t know you noticed,” I said.

“I see a lot , mom,” Hannah said.

Looking down at the 30 foot height, I had another spell and started to sweat and hyperventilate.

A small woodpecker landed above, and started pecking, as if counting off the seconds, making me more nervous.

“Do you know how to help a person stranded in a tree?” I asked.

“Are you going to be ok mom?” Hannah asked.

“Not sure. I think I need a little help,” I said.

“Ok, don’t worry, you got this. I can call those animal rescue people. I bet they can get you out of a tree if they can get a cat out,” Hannah said.

The woodpecker kept pecking. Food apparently trumped a large human.

“No, it’s ok. I’ll figure something out,” I said.

I started crying.

“Are you sure? Never heard you cry before. Even when Baba died. Maybe if I tell you a story, you’ll calm down,” Hannah offered.

“No, that’s ok. I really don’t think that will help…” I said.

“Sometimes even when you wanna cry, you gotta laugh,” Hannah said.

“Ok. But not too long, I gotta figure out a way to get down. I might have to call the fire department. They’re gonna think I’m either crazy or really stupid…” I said.

“Mom, please just listen,” Hannah said.

She then recounted a story about how mom had cut Hannah’s hair too short when she was five.

“Baba realized it was too short on one side, so she cut the other. Then she kept trying to level both sides out, but ended up giving me a LOT wider forehead. Sometimes fixing things just makes things worse,” Hannah said.

I recalled the lopsided bangs and the look of upset on Hannah’s face. The image made me laugh.

“You told me you cut your own hair! Why would you lie for Baba?” I asked.

“I loved her. I thought she’d get in trouble,” Hannah said.

“She wasn’t scared of me. Only too proud to show fear,” I said.

“She was also real proud of you, Mama,” Hannah said.

“Really?” I said.

“Yeah-All the stories she told me about how brave you used to be,” Hannah said.

“But I was never brave like Baba. She used to ride motorcycles, climb trees, never complain about her treatments…” I said.

“Not like that. Like going to Japan all by yourself to find a job when you didn’t know the language, becoming a teacher even when you hated talking in front of people. There’s different kinds of brave. And Baba said you were the other kind. The kind that said ‘I love you’,” Hannah said

“I didn’t know that. Thank you for telling me. What kind of brave are you?” I asked.

“I’m all kinds,” I said.

“I wish I was all kinds too. That would help me get down,” I said.

“You got yourself up there, so you gotta be at least a little Baba’s kind,” Hannah said.

“I guess you’re right. Sorry I don’t give you enough credit for things. You know a lot more than I do sometimes. And you think with your heart and head,” I said.

“It’ ok. Thank you,” Hannah said.

“No, thank you. I think I got this now,” I said.

“If you make it back alive, I’ll never feed those mice again,” Hannah laughed.

“Great, thanks! So glad to hear that! And if I don’t?” I said.

“Don’t what?” Hannah asked.

“Make it back ok,” I said.

“Well, I’ll just have some little friends and a very happy owl,” Hannah said.

13

Through the branches, I took one last look at the sunset that was spreading across the sky, the clouds in bright tangerine, cotton candy pink, contrasting with the baby blue of the sky. I almost snapped a shot of it, but stopped, realizing it would’ve just gotten lost in the thousands of other images I’d never take time to see. No documentation needed. Good enough as a brief pause in time, to enjoy here and now. I wondered if the owls enjoyed any of this or if they just saw the setting sun as simply a marker of hunting time, of survival. I, on the other hand knew, in all certainty, that I had the luxury of enjoying the beauty. I could savor it whenever it presented itself, or whenever I chose to, in the form of a sunrise, stars, a memory, and even dreams.

After having climbed so high, I lightly flicked off an ant that had crawled onto my pants. I closed my eyes not from fatigue, but to just be in the moment, breathe in the fresh, cool evening air filled with pine scent. My quest to come eye-to eye with one of the great creatures didn’t materialize, but I saw myself again as the adventurous girl I once was.

I knew it was time to descend. I just focused on each branch below. A moment of dizziness. I kept going. A sudden strong wind blew the tree, swaying it side to side. I kept descending. Finally reaching the bottom, jumping from about 7 feet above ground, wanting to feel my full weight through my legs, falling onto the soft bed of pine needles and laughing.

The current homeowner stepped out to get her mail, looking quizzically at me as I brushed myself off.

“Hi- I used to live here,” I said.

“Oh- that’s nice,” she said.

“Yeah, this is a good tree to see sunsets through,” I smiled.

She smiled incredulously.

That day, I got absolutely nothing done from my to do list, nor did I plan to that night. Yet the day had gone so quickly, and my sense of accomplishment filled me with relief. My hands were red and blistered with splinters. Arriving home, I took a long hot bath in epsom salts, letting them soak into the small cuts. I would let tiredness take its natural course, only setting an alarm halfway through the night, and once again in the morning. Maybe over time I would only set it in the morning and even just wake up with the rising sun.

I came across the old phonebook, recently. Gingerly opening one of the pages, I saw the footprints were actually faded, and the water had absorbed into the paper surrounding them, leaving only a faintly wavy texture. They made beautifully framed pieces.