a hand.

August 25, 2010

The way she tells it, you feel the clarity of a moment more than seventy years into the past drilling brilliance into your scull through your eyeballs like you were staring at the sun. She’s standing over when as she tells it, too, and her eyes glow. There is doom in her voice. A shakiness and dread, like it hasn’t happened yet, as though she hasn’t seen what’s coming but can feel it there pulsing under the earth. Just below the surface. You are about to hear the story for the umpteenth time, and yet, the way she does, you pretend you know nothing. Seventy some odd years ago she was not pretending. Though she already knew. She was begging. please god let this not be.

She is trembling now as she tells it- more than a telling, it is a reenactment. Every movement carried out in a macabre mime. She bends to inspect the earth, thrown into a haphazard pile by a shovel possibly taken from her own yard. She gets down on her knees, stares at the carpet. There are no dramatic pauses. She talks wildly the whole way through. you could not imagine. my heart, my heart, at the, at the bottom, and sinking. here. kneeling still, she clutches her stomach kneading at her bowels from the outside. here, like a, like a, pain. unimaginable. She scrapes aside the thin layer of earth which the carpet has become. And there, barely buried, a hand. Her own takes on the role, fingers curled as after the passing of a painful though sudden death. Blue. Purple. Recognized immediately. And there are more piles. Ever more mounds of earth crudely mocking the idea of a resting places.

(more to come…)


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