Careful incisions were made. Perfectly symmetrical cuts on my back. Two thin slits lay even. Cat eyes sliced clean then peeled open just enough to extract my appendix. A soft mass of tissue, no longer of use. In its place they inserted a robin’s egg. Brilliantly blue and speckled. The weight of gold nestled beneath my spine. Fragile but whole all the same.
Four tornadoes whipped around in circles outside my window. I was concerned about their closeness. When a baseball was thrown right into the window. Not shattering it, but leaving behind a small peep-hole, enough space for only the ball to pass through and for us to look out into the ominous dark sky. At eye-level, nothing was separating us from the elements. It wasn’t until later that I discovered the grey sky had been seeping in all along, and slowly expanding into the room.
With careful effort she attempted to pin the yellow finch to the map on the spot where she first lived. To represent herself. The location of her home. Even as she pushed the thin needle through the soft body of this gentle bird she felt regret. It was wrong to cause so much pain to this captured prey, only for the sake of being remembered. Each time this innocent creature fluttered its wings to free itself she was reminded of her wrongdoing. The guilt setting in, knowing that she was the cause of all this struggle.
It was feast or famine. We licked that cow carcass clean to the bone. Sliding our tongues down every last splinter of spine til it was slick like glass. Our primal instincts brought us together, spooning heaps of stew into each other’s mouths until we almost gagged. But it was necessary. Satisfying, even. Not until we were finally full could we come to stillness.
We were fishing. The fish I reeled in was gigantic. My stepmother was just going to cut off its head, right then and there. I stopped her and gave instructions to slice open its belly. She did and inside was a pile of shiny metal beads. This fish had been caught before.
We were standing in line, waiting for the boys. I wandered off to get my face painted. At the booth, I asked the face-painter to paint a bicycle on my cheek. Instead, she suggested an eyeball on the inside of my upper arm. At first I didn’t like this idea, but then I realized I would be too self-conscious with a bicycle on my face, so I agreed.
They were going to perform surgery on me to remove the part of my brain that controls memory. It was my decision, if I wanted this done or not. I did. But, I also knew it was something very serious.
We were all moving on this day. Although, I forgot my wheeled cart. An elderly woman offered up hers only it was nowhere to be found and moving hour was fast approaching. The others joined in on this search. Somehow every shopping cart we tested was not quite right. Our exhaustion set in and our troubles were met with short breaks of licking bee brood – a brilliant purple and orange paste that rippled in texture and tasted of golden comb. A young fellow sat on his bed, savoring his portion, while removing his shirt. He held out his clothing and insisted I take it as a souvenir (so that I may remember him). Of course, I didn’t even know who he was, so I refused.
I was dancing in my kitchen. No one was watching except the shadow of my younger self. She looks at me and I stop mid-twirl. I don’t know how I got here. But the light filters in and touches my face just right. I don’t care if anyone discovers me. They would be surprised to find me here. Alone in my kitchen.
The room was bare. Only the window left open. I thought about my security and for a moment reached out to shut the window pane.
But stopped.
I decided to leave the window open because it was old and chipped and likely to be stuck in its frame.
Marga Pictures 