We talked then, as we always talked, she a part of me. In her bedroom, a faded cigar box rattled with heartbreak—engagement rings that her daughter-in-law would, soon enough, strip of their diamonds. In the loft, a journal I would inherit and burn.
Five mobiles hung from the loft’s railing. Twenty-eight yellowed snowflakes, each the size of a giant cookie, cascaded at odd angles just above our heads. Free-flying metal birds, paper fishes, ceramic squares and ovals, and red and gold embossed paper dragon parts floated from above. And Tibetan temple bells on a rope. I found the stepladder tucked behind the sofa and unfolded it.
Iris laughed—not that mindless shrill that trips from the tip of a girl’s vocal cords, but a bird song that resonated from the ground swell of her being. She needed my help. She squeezed my hand. I gave her a boost. One step and then the next. Though cautious at first, carefully examining and polishing the center of the nearest snowflake, she was quick to reach higher, wider. She was three steps up when I stepped in behind. The painted bracelet, a gift from my last visit, slid from slender wrist to slender forearm and stuck. I thought of Becky without longing.
A snowflake twirled, and then another. We sneezed recklessly, elbows beating the air. And then the dust cloth dropped away.
All began to swirl—snowflakes, birds, fishes, squares, ovals, dragon parts. I held her closer. There were strings and wires and a sudden marriage of fish and birds. Then a burst of light as a serrated edge of the dragon’s tail caught my eye. I ducked sideways and its head, legs, and torso swung wildly after me. Bells rang. I felt dizzy. Faces asserted themselves from dark shadows. Apparitions. Eyes—eyes hung at eye-level. Accusing eyes. Mocking eyes. Studio portraits. Mick, kindergarten to graduation. Glen in pinstriped suits.
“Two women came out from Social Services. They were going to clean,” she coughed. “It seemed like a good idea. But they didn’t understand. They just stood there. And looked. And didn’t understand. I told them it was alright. That they should go home....”
There is a crash, a lamp, a vase, maybe. We are in a violent struggle. The ladder drifts. I am whimpering, “Becky wants to divorce me…” and then we are not moving at all. We are suspended, draped and bound in broken, twisted wires and strings. When our breathing grows quiet, I help her down. Broken snowflakes and the harsh skin of dragon parts pierce our feet.
Margaret Osburn teaches creative nonfiction writing at The Johns Hopkins University. She is the recipient of regional press awards (IN) for news and feature writing and wrote a documentary film broadcast on PBS.