Here Now By: Nema Marie

Why do hands wrinkle and toughen when they’re in water? I watch the film of incandescent bubbles lather over my wrinkled, worn hands. Now, not so wrinkled from my time in this hollow stainless steel bowl, but rather from the weather and wear of time. New moles and scars doing the job of mapping out the lands I’ve traveled.

Have you ever noticed how things look a little more dull through the pane of a window? I observe the blue cloaked bird as she adds the last twig to her nest. She’s been determined, day by day, twig after twig. Devoted. She isn’t the first, there was a red bird before. She had 3 baby birds, and I can recall when each left the nest. The first the least confident, the second the most daring, and the third most free.

I rinse off the last dish, watching as the last of the bubbles drip down and into the drain, it feels so final. The act of rinsing off the last dish. I put it onto dry in the slanted wire stand, as I watch the last bit of water pour down the side, and into the sink. All done.

I head into my bedroom, the morning was such a rush I left the pillows splayed out on the floor and blankets still outlining where my body laid. I gather the blanket, the comforter, the petaled sheet, and many pillows. I lay them to the side while I use an old shirt to dust off the mattress. I imagine each pass of the whipping shirt being a clean sweep of energy. I assemble the ensemble again while I go over today’s past happenings.

“You can’t avoid it all, you know?” Mila always had the gall to call things the way she saw them, and she was of course no different with me. “Meels, it’s not that I’m avoiding it. I just don’t understand how acknowledging it will help,” I’ve always been one to avoid things, yes, but this time I meant it. What good would it do?

I put down the folded, worn, purple shirt and looked up at her. Our eyes meet and instead of being met with the usual whine and drag, I’m met with a plea. I open my mouth to speak but before I can she interrupts me, “Okay.” Always the more understanding one too, Mila was never one to push. I offer her a sincere smile, and I watch as she curls her lips into a half smile, eyes not quite meeting.

Now, I glance over to the made bed, to the night stand. I take the time to acknowledge each swirl and flower engraved, I notice the corners have adopted a more rounded shape rather than the sharpness that it used to carry. I follow my way up the flowers’ stem, to the painted petals, finally arriving at the top. Covering the nightstand used to be evidence of the days prior, stories told by old takeout cups and cigarette butts. Now, the stories are slowing, over time, day by day, cigarettes untouched and cups disappearing.

I lean over and open the top drawer, revealing an old worn down journal. The spiral of the spine has bent over time, and most of the pages are filled making the journals’ entirety a little more puffy compared to its slender beginning. I open up the pages, a crisp crinkle sound accompanying.

I’ve never been one for secrets, usually an open book, willing and ready to be read by anyone. Lately, the story’s been different. Words stay at the tip of my tongue, unspoken, stuck in my throat like a bad cough. The puffy worn journal formerly known as the only place such behavior existed. I close the journal, not avoiding just waiting.

I often think back to a conversation I had with an uncle growing up, the topic was animals. He had a certain liking for wolves and how they functioned within their own society. I remember him telling me facts about how when they traveled in packs they would often keep the weakest and oldest in the middle while the stronger, more able surrounded them. However, the fact that really stood out to me was when he told me about how they die.

When wolves are close to their death, when they’re sick or just generally near the end, they leave. When I inquired further he explained that if a wolf feels he is about to die, he’ll gather all his strength and travel as far out as he can. Instead of staying near his pack, he’ll lay himself down, and let the final sleep take over.

When I was young the idea of choosing a death alone seemed so alien and formidable. As time passed though I understood the concept more and more. Death has been described as the ultimate release over the course of centuries and many civilizations. I started to reach a point where death was no longer this concept of finality but instead a place of transition, a bridge, crossing over to the next.

I think back to the last conversation I had with all three kids. There was no goodbye, no finality, though the air spoke enough of it. There was only quiet understanding, there was no avoiding something so inevitable. Given a countdown, what do you do? Past the arrangements, past managing the medications, what do you do?

Have you heard of the immortal jellyfish? They named it so because when it’s near its own end, when the circumstances are too intense or dragging, the jellyfish will turn in on itself. Turning into what it once was, a young blob, sinking to the bottom of the ocean floor beginning anew. The jellyfish, instead of dying, returns to the youngest stage, and the life cycle resets.

Death is the least final act of life. My ultimate release will not be one of an ending, but a transition. I will look around my quiet room, I will watch as the picture frames full of memories play like scenes from a movie. I will feel as my skin tingles, starting in my shoulders, leading down my fingers, I will feel the warmth as it encloses me, the light surrounding this new beginning. Death is my least final act, and this is not a goodbye. The energy within me will pour out, it will sink into the wooden floor boards, into the ground, it will plant anew.