Short Stories
Many of these stories have emerged from fiction exercises, utilizing prompts and a time limit. If applicable, the information is posted at the end of each story for reference. While these are not the final drafts, I do welcome feedback and constructive criticism.
Story Listing
God and Grief
Linger
Perfect Memory
Rhythm and Time
Worlds Apart
Metamorphosis
Layers
Power Storm
Ghost of You
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Ghost of You
Ghost of You
by Susan Pogorzelski
“So this is it, isn’t it. This is where it’s going to end.”
“Stop. You’re worrying for nothing; nothing’s ending.”
“Yeah it is.” She forced a smile, though her eyes were dark with something deeper. “It’s ok. I know that’s how this friendship goes. It’s good while it lasts and then we don’t talk for forever.” She chuckled, trying to keep the tone light. “I’m used to it by now.”
She turned away from him and stared at the dashboard in front of her. Outside, a gentle rain began to fall, and he shifted in his seat and flipped on the windshield wipers. Soon she was watching them, the steady rhythm that rocked back and forth, back and forth, back and forth — clearing the tiny drops of water that blurred the world for moments at a time.
“What are you thinking?” His voice was low, gentle, so gentle that she almost didn’t recognize it, and when she turned her head, she almost didn’t recognize him.
She shrugged.
“No, you do know. What are you thinking?”
She hated this about him — the way he pushed her and made her talk when he knew there were words she couldn’t bring herself to say.
“I’m thinking…” She paused and glanced out the front window again. “I’m thinking it’s really late. I should get going.”
She wanted him to stop her. She wanted the night to freeze, wanted this moment with him to go on forever. She wanted to remain in this car, under the parking lot lamp, where it was just him and her and the changing tracks of his radio.
“Ok.”
She nodded. “Ok.”
She gathered her purse and scarf, her hand hesitating on the door handle for a moment. She wanted him to reach out and take hold of her arm, tell her to wait, tell her-
“Thanks for coming to dinner. It was good seeing you.”
She smiled, words bubbling up from somewhere inside of her, words she wanted desperately to say, words that hung on her lips.
“Stay safe, ok?”
His eyes locked on hers as he nodded slowly. She opened the car door and stepped into the chilled air, pulling her car keys from her coat pocket. She heard his car shift into gear behind her, and she stood still for a moment as she heard the tires drive across the gravel, as he drove away from her.
She wished he would turn around and come back. She wished she could have said what she had really been thinking.
But he wouldn’t. She knew him and knew this. He would keep driving, and maybe he would call her on his way across the state line, but then those calls would become few and far between, like their visits, like they’d been for the past few weeks. Soon they would stop completely. And she would call him to share good news or seek out a needed friend, but she would hear his familiar recorded voice, promising a call back as soon as possible. He wouldn’t call.
He would forget her for those long winter months, and she would try to forget him until that one day when the trees began to show evidence of life and the weather turned warm again. His name would light up the screen on her phone, and she would hesitate and then answer.
She shook her head and crossed to her car, the lights from the alarm flashing twice as she unlocked the doors and sank into the front seat. She placed her key in the ignition, the radio clicking on automatically, but she didn’t follow him. She wanted a moment — a moment here in the solitude of the empty parking lot, illuminated by the single lamppost that loomed above her car. She watched as the raindrops fell across the windshield, fewer now, as if the rain cloud had passed, leaving only a gentle fog across the landscape, extending to the farmland that bordered the pavement.
She sighed and switched her car into drive and turned the radio up, turning the wheel towards the exit and pressing lightly on the gas.
She thought it had been different this time. She had let down her guard with him and laughed and cried. She had been the person he called when he needed to vent, needed an ear, needed a friend. He had been the first person she called to share good news; his was the number she reached for when she needed someone to lean on. And he had been there. It had felt different this time, like there was a chance.
A pair of headlights swept through her car as she crossed the parking lot. She slowed and glanced in her review mirror, watching as his car passed, red brake lights filling the night.
Her cell phone rang, his name lighting the screen. She glanced back in the mirror, saw him stepping out of the car, and she put her car in park and picked up the phone.
“What are you doing?” She asked.
“Why do you think that is?”
“What? I thought you were on your way home?”
“Why do you think that is — that we don’t talk. Why do you think that is?”
She shook her head. “I have no idea.”
He was still there, still in the review mirror. She lowered her hand; a moment later, she was crossing the parking lot towards him, stopping just a few feet away. She had a question in her eyes, but her lips remained closed, unable to form the words, unsure of what to say.
He opened his mouth, paused, then shifted his weight and placed his phone in his back pocket.
“Why did you say that?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It’s true. You and I — we’re locked in this permanent cycle where we get close and then I don’t hear from you for months. I hate that. I don’t get that. I didn’t want that to happen again this time.”
“Neither do I.”
She looked at his car, at the gravel that scattered the ground, at the dark horizon. Anything but him.
“I got attached,” she admitted. “I got attached, and I liked you being there. And that’s going to change again. I’m not ready for it.”
He crossed the space between them and touched her arm; she could feel the weight of his fingertips resting on her coat sleeve. She didn’t move away.
“I’ll be here-”
“No you won’t.“ She knew it as a matter of fact and couldn’t change it, though she wanted to. “You won’t because that’s just who you are. You’ll go away and you’ll forget about me for awhile. I don’t want to be forgotten again. Just — not this time.”
He put his arms around her, pulling her closer against him. She buried her nose against the soft cotton of his sweatshirt as she rested her head on his shoulder. His arms held her tightly, and her fingers tenderly touched the back of his neck. She closed her eyes, her heart sinking.
“So, this is goodbye. Isn’t it?” She hated the way her voice sounded — the hope that resided on the surface. She knew he could hear it, knew he would recognize every other emotion that was flooding through her right now.
“No.” She heard him say quietly, felt the faint shake of his head. “It’s not goodbye. I promise you. This isn’t goodbye.”
He held her tighter to him, and she inhaled slowly, suddenly unafraid of the moment when she’d have to let go.
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Power Storm
Power Storm
by Susan Pogorzelski
She broke the cookie in half and pulled out the tiny slip of paper.
“’Love lights up the world,’” she muttered, then rolled her eyes, crumpled it in a ball, and tossed it onto the coffee table. She leaned back against the couch and popped half the cookie into her mouth, chewing slowly.
A pint of the house rice and Chinese vegetables sat in front of her, chopsticks still in their red paper wrapper. Her fridge was stocked with leftover take-out from the week before, along with a quart of milk that she assumed was ready to turn. Her cupboards were bare except for a box of spaghetti noodles and a stockpile of spices that had never been touched. Tomorrow, she’ll throw all of those leftovers into a black trash bag and haul the boxes adorned with Chinese lettering, the half-eaten pizzas, the soda cups, down four flights of stairs to the dumpster.
A waste. It was all such a waste.
She leaned forward and scooped up a helping of vegetables with the plastic fork, took a bite, then picked up the tiny piece of paper again, straightening the creases between her fingers.
Outside, the rain pounded against the windowpane, distorting the view. Inside, the old TV crackled and buzzed, and she picked up the remote and turned the volume up, a melodic chorus of voices interspersed with a ringing bell and bright, colorful movement distracting her from the weather. Musicals seemed safer tonight, fooling her into believing in fairytales and happily-ever-afters.
Thunder cracked against the sky and a burst of lightning illuminated the room. A moment later, the lightbulb over the stove flickered, the TV plunged into silence, and the space heater beside her hummed, then dimmed.
“Shit.”
She stood and crossed the room to the window, peering at the apartment building next door. All was dark there, too, but further down the block, lights still glowed along the sidewalks.
She hated this city.
Cursing, she grabbed her jacket and scarf and locked her apartment behind her. On the street, taxi cabs paused at flashing yellow lights, honking in time with the windshield wipers. She rounded the corner on the next block, ducking inside a phone booth to avoid the steady rain that was already forming mass puddles at her feet. She fished in her pocket for change and tested the phone for a dial tone.
“It’s me,” she said as soon as the other line picked up. “No, I’m fine. It’s the rain, you can’t hear a damned thing. Listen, the storm knocked out my power.”
She could barely hear his response, wasn’t sure if there was an invitation among the thunder.
“So, I’m coming over. I’m leaving now.” She hung up, wrapped her scarf around her head for shelter, and stepped into the cold.
His apartment had a doorman who greeted her warmly and asked her how she’d been. She didn’t stop to ask how his wife was or congratulate his daughter on her first born. Instead she forced a rigid smile and hurried to the elevators, savoring the warmth, the shelter, the light. Her shoes stepped silently along the carpeted hallway, though they left trails of water droplets as she approached his door.
“You’re crazy.”
“Nice to see you, too.”
“What are you thinking, coming out here in this?”
She edged past him and unwrapped the scarf from her head, running her fingers through damp hair, easing the tangles. “I was thinking that you have a warm apartment with all the lights on.”
“I can’t guarantee they’ll stay on,” he crossed over to the window just as lightning intersected the sky.
“Last time my power went out, it didn’t come on until the next morning. I wasn’t willing to take that chance.”
“I seem to remember keeping warm all night.”
She glared at his smirk. “I’m not willing to take that chance, either.”
He shook his head and pointed to the bedroom. “Help yourself. I’ll put on some coffee.”
“No sugar?”
He nodded, a trace of a familiar smile appearing at the corner of his mouth.
“No sugar.”
Everything as she remembered. Everything the same. Socks were in the bottom drawer, sweatpants folded in the second. She stripped out of her damp clothes, savoring the feel of dry cotton against her bare skin, and wrung her hair out in the bathtub.
When she walked back into the living room, he handed her a mug — a black one with light blue polka dots and a small chip on the bottom rim. She loved this mug; she had claimed it the first time she ever came here, felt it was hers, though it belonged to him.
“I should’ve taken this with me,” she mused as she inhaled the strong scent, folding her hands around the mug and letting the steam warm her face.
“You didn’t want anything.”
“No. I didn’t.”
“You wanted to be left alone.”
“Still do.”
“Why?”
She puckered her lips and blew gently on the dark liquid, watching the ripples expand, then fade away.
“Because.”
“That’s a shit answer.”
She jerked her head up at this. His hands were placed flat against the kitchen counter, his shoulders drawn defiantly. He was wearing a t-shirt of his favorite baseball team – his hometown team – and he had that five o’clock shadow that she often teased him about but secretly loved.
It was all the same.
“I didn’t come here for closure.”
“Sure you did.”
Everything was the same, including that self-assuredness, that honesty that both frightened and attracted her.
“My power went out…” she heard her voice rise, an octave higher than she would like him to notice.
“And I’m the only one you know in the city?”
“I don’t want to fight.”
He laughed, a forced chuckle. “I don’t either.”
“So then stop pissing me off.” She crossed the room, tucked her legs beneath her, and fell into cushions of the couch. “My life was perfect before.”
“Your life was shit before.”
“True.” Her eyes roamed over his movie collection, drinking in the titles. The Music Man. Singing In the Rain. Bye Bye Birdie. She had almost forgotten this about him, forgotten how this had surprised her. He always seemed to surprise her.
He ran a hand over his face and shifted so that his shoulder was leaning against the television cabinet, arms folded across his chest as he watched her.
“So you did.”
“Did what?”
He was talking like she had answered a question, and all she could do was listen as he responded. “Before you met me…You didn’t want to care about someone. But you did.”
“You didn’t give me much choice.”
“You could’ve walked away then.”
“I didn’t want to.”
“But you could’ve.” He paused, glanced out the window, then back to her. “You could’ve.”
She looked away, following his gaze towards the window where rainwater zigzaged patterns down the glass, blurring the world so that it felt very small, very secluded. Very much him and her.
She heard him shift, felt his movement as a chill down her arm as he sat on the opposite couch, leaning towards her, forearms resting against his knees. There was a question in his eyes, not verbalized but hanging on the air between them, and she imagined she could see it, could reach for it and grasp it in her hand.
She sighed. “It would have ended sooner or later.”
“So why not later?”
“It happened so fast.”
“So you got scared.”
A short nod. He hung his head between his arms for a moment, then lifted his eyes to meet her gaze, the lamplight reflecting pools of blue and holding hers the way they used to so that she couldn’t look away, not even if she wanted to. She caught her breath, waited.
“You have to grow up sometime.”
“Fuck you.”
He raised his eyebrows in surprise or amusement, she never really could tell which with that half-smile.
“We did that, remember? We were pretty good at that, too.”
She rolled her eyes, could feel her blood warm in frustration. “You were just as much the coward as I was.”
“Don’t.” The smile faded and he stood up, grabbing the mug from her hands. “Don’t pin this on me. Just because it makes it easier for you, don’t pin it on me.”
“You think it was easy?” Her voice followed him into the kitchen, and she watched as he flipped the mug over to drain the liquid, then paused and set it down carefully on the counter. He didn’t say a word, waited for her to continue without looking at her. “I got scared, yes, but you didn’t stop me, didn’t call me. You were the one that decided you didn’t want me anymore. So what exactly was I supposed to do with that?”
“I did want you!” His raised voice matched her own, and she knew that he was feeling the same frustration, could feel the air charge between them, like the storm outside those walls. “I did, but you walked away from it because you were too shit-scared to admit there was something there. That was your choice. So don’t pin it on me. As far as I’m concerned, there are two people here to blame.”
A clap of thunder; the lights flickered but refused to go out. He took a sip from his own full mug, swallowed slowly. She turned her attention away from him, picked at a loose thread on the cuff of her – his – sweatpants.
“What are you really doing here?” His voice sounded tired as he walked closer to her. She kept her eyes down, not wanting to get caught in that trap, pausing to formulate a response and hesitating between honesty and lie.
“I needed–”
“What.”
“I need-”
“What?”
“Will you shut up already? You. Happy? God.”
He sat back down across from her and remained silent. She could never tell what he was thinking, never could predict what he was going to say. A thousand possible responses could flash through her mind in an instant, but she knew that each one of those would be wrong.
She suddenly wished she could take it all back, suddenly wished she had called anyone but him. She wished that she knew enough by now not to give into impulse, wished that she hadn’t started this all over again in the first place.
If only because she knew exactly how it was going to end.
It was how it always ended.
Whether they wound up entangled in the bed sheets or she walked home now, alone, in the rain, this night would only end in goodbye.
And she wasn’t ready for it.
She never was.
“Say something.” She hated herself for this plea, but couldn’t bear his silence.
“What do you want me to say?”
“Anything. Something.”
He shook his head. “I can’t.”
And that was it. She knew which path this goodbye would take. She stood and pulled on her shoes; he watched her as she moved towards the doorway, gathering her things, then hurried to meet her there. For a second, she turned around, imagining what this moment should mean, knowing what wouldn’t ever come.
Wordlessly, she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a tiny slip of paper. She glanced at it, then held it out. He looked down as it passed between their hands.
“It was getting cold in my apartment,” she said, and though she tried to make her voice devoid of any emotion, she felt the disappointment slipping through. “Thanks for letting me stop by.”
She left his doorway, wandered back into the elevator, and watched the numbers descend. The doorman nodded to her but didn’t say a word as she crossed through the lobby. At the double-glass doors, she waited a moment more, drinking in the light, then she stepped back out into the dark, rain-teared streets, without knowing where one ended and she began.
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Layers
Layers
(Prequel to Linger)
by Susan Pogorzelski
His tan overcoat lay draped across the overstuffed armchair, a corner of the fabric barely grazing the beige carpet below it. Outside, the raindrops created awkward, mesmerizing movements as they sketched patterns down the windowpane before disappearing altogether.
His coat was still damp, and for a second, my fingers reached out to trace the outer lining, as if to reassure myself that it was still there, that he was still here.
I turned back to the window, my heels digging into the plush carpet, and stared out at a city that was now just a kaleidoscope of color against a backdrop of night, a fast-moving blur of orange and blue hues.
I paused to tap the cigarette against the glass ashtray resting on the sill; the ashes collecting like a puddle, forming a mountain of the forgotten, discarded.
“Are you ready?”
No. I wouldn’t ever be ready, not for this. Not for what I knew would eventually come.
I exhaled slowly, smoke curling into the air before evaporating, then pressed the cigarette against the molded glass and turned to face him.
“What’s the matter?”
He always did that, always knew something was wrong just by a silence.
“Nothing’s the matter.”
He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head. “You’re not telling the truth.”
He always did that, too – had a way with his words, saying things the way no other man would say them, his accent softly coaxing a need for confession, making a person believe in forgiveness, in possibility. In everything.
I shook my head, picked up his overcoat, and shook out the wrinkles.
“I hate this weather. The rain, it makes everything harder, seem colder than it really is. Your coat is still damp, are you sure you want to wear it?”
He crossed the room and took the coat from my hands, a soft smile turning up the corners of his mouth.
“A little rain never hurt anyone, really.”
I felt strange, empty, now, as if a part of him had already gone and I wanted to ask for the coat back, wanted to have something that belonged to him belong to me.
“Reservations are at eight, down the road, there.” He paused, mistaking my hesitation, and motioned to the suite’s kitchenette. “We can stay in tonight, if you prefer.”
“No, no, of course not. Dinner is fine, dinner is good.”
Dinner was safe.
“I’ll ring for a taxi-”
“No, let’s walk,” I interrupted him. “I’d rather walk.”
He nodded and reached for the light switch, opening the door as I gathered my coat and purse. From where I was standing I could see the brightly-lit hallway: the beige tile floor, the decorative flowers on the mahogany table, and the still-life of fruit hanging against the drab, paisley wallpaper.
“Wait,” I whispered. Words hung on the air, words that wouldn’t, couldn’t come.
He turned his head and suddenly I knew that I needed to keep these moments for as long as I could, knew that if it was for even just a moment, it would be enough. I wanted to hold onto it, hold onto this.
Because I was certain that once I walked out that door, once I left this building, time would catch up, move forward. And everything would make its way towards tomorrow.
He shut the door, the light ebbing so that only the table lamp illuminated the room in a soft, subtle glow. He moved towards me, standing just inches away.
“What is it?” His voice was low, concerned, his brown eyes searching my own for answers. I wondered if he saw it then, wondered if he knew. I opened my mouth to speak, but shrugged instead.
“Whatever it is, you can tell me.”
And I knew that I could, knew, then, that I would.
“It’s nothing,” I said slowly, quietly. And I smiled and reached up to stroke his arm in silent gratitude. “Let’s enjoy our evening.”
He nodded, took my coat from my hands, and held it up, waiting patiently for me. Waiting. Always waiting. I wanted to wait some more, to delay the night.
“I hate this weather,” I said as I turned around and slipped my arms through the sleeves. “It’s just that it’s so cold out – it’s such a cold rain, isn’t it? And it goes right through you, right down to the core. Like a chill you can’t shake. And it can last or it can be over in a second and you never really know which. But either way, it will always be there, traces of it…”
Like a greeting or a goodbye.
Or a confession.
“I never knew you to be afraid of a little rain.”
“Oh, it’s not the rain. I’m afraid of the change.”
I felt him pause, and I caught my breath, his hand lingering lightly on my arm. For a moment, I thought I could feel the warmth of his touch through the heavy layers, reassuring, calming. He was always so calming.
“Nothing’s changing,” he said quietly, though his tone held a question that I couldn’t answer. And I knew if I looked into his eyes I would be forced to, and I wasn’t ready. Not yet.
Something was changing, and tomorrow it would be different. One way or another, he would be gone, and I wouldn’t be able to stop any of it from happening.
“You’re right,” was all I could say. “You’re right.” I wrapped my scarf around my neck and slipped my gloves on over my hands. I sighed, “I really hate this weather.”
He was a moment behind me as I crossed towards the door; I could feel him watching me as I crossed the threshold into the hallway, my heels clicking on the tile as I stepped past the vase of blooming artificial flowers and the portrait of painted fruit.
The moment was gone and we were moving forward again, past a greeting, towards a goodbye, and in between, I knew, there would lie a confession.
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Metamorphosis
Metamorphosis
by Susan Pogorzelski
My uncle’s son and I are a year apart and separated by fifty acres of farmland. Our farm was always better, he would say, because we have a creek running through the back woods where we can search for slugs and fresh worms, but his has a pond with a rope swing. I was always too little for the rope swing, but one day, I would tell him, I would be tall enough, old enough.
During the summers we would play spy and watch our dads work the tractors in the fields or hunt down lost jewelry outside for our moms. Our moms always put a stop to it once they found us trampling through their gardens. In the winter we built igloos and snow forts and made snow angels just below the porch light, so that when we were finally coaxed in for hot chocolate and looked out the window, they really did look like sleeping angels, with halos of light that made them seem warm and glowing, just like I felt, tucked inside the farmhouse on that December piece of night.
In the spring, he and I would hunt for birds nests. When his friends were over, they talked about finding eggs and chucking them at Mrs. Simpson’s house, but I would shout at them about the babies and the mom-bird until my face grew hot and I began to cry, and they would run off and I would sniffle and look up into the treetop, the sun glistening through the wind-blown leaves, and imagine that the birds there were thanking me.
He wasn’t like his friends, though. Once we watched a baby bird try to fly, only to fall out of the nest. His sister’s cat was watching, too, and pounced as soon as the bird hit the ground. I ran behind him, our sweet tea forgotten on the porch as we shooed the cat away. The bird was hopping around on feet that reminded me of twigs found in the woods; one wing was folded back, the brittle bones broken by its fall. We found a cardboard shoe box and stuffed it full of toilet paper and tried to nurse it back to health, but it died two days later. I didn’t see him for days after that, not even for the funeral I begged my dad to give it.
School divided us once the fall came, and although we took the same yellow school bus every morning, he would wordlessly shuffle down the aisle towards the back where his friends hollered and threw paper bits at the back of pony-tailed girls while I slid against the window in the front seat to watch the farmland pass in a blur of wheat and leaves. On the walk home from the bus stop I would ask him who he ate lunch with and what did he learn that day and was it easier than my grade, and he would respond with words like “people” and “stuff” and “yup” and kick at the dirt with his sneaker.
We used to walk back to his house every afternoon, where my aunt offered us chocolate chip cookies and cold milk in large glasses as we sat at the kitchen table to do our homework before being allowed out to play, before he was called in to dinner and I was called home. I always let him have the last cookie and he would look over my math and show me what I was doing wrong. Both of us would watch for the clock to shift to four o’clock and then our pencils would drop onto our books and chairs would scrape across the tile and the screen door would bounce against the grooves as it slammed shut and we ran outside to play.
That was another year, another time. That was a different him. That new school year, I hopped down the bus steps and waited for him to follow, eager to point out the empty beehive I’d found earlier that morning on the way to the bus stop, but he didn’t even pause before starting down the path to his house, the tires of the bus kicking up waves of dust beside us as it drove past, down another road, towards another stop.
I waited for him to turn around, to tell me to hurry up and catch up, that he would eat all my cookies if I was going to be such a slowpoke. But he kept walking, adjusting the straps of his bag against his hunched shoulders, sneakers kicking loose stones and leaving faint tracks in the dirt that would quickly be covered up, like the ones from all the mornings before, no trace at all that we had once stood there.
I should have known then that we were becoming different people, that snow angels and trips to the creek were distant days, but every afternoon I watched him walk further and further away, still wanting to cling to those memories, seek them out for comfort, not willing to let them go. Like the mother returning year after year to that same oak tree, still looking for her fallen bird.
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Worlds Apart
Worlds Apart
by Susan Pogorzelski
I dream of other men, even though I’m with you. Even as I sit here, in the same room with you, my thoughts are on what could have been, what we could have been, and what had changed me all those years ago.
I’m not the same woman that I was once upon a time, dreaming of my happily ever ending. I’m not the same woman as I was when we first met, when I thought you could fulfill my every fantasy, when I thought I could live with the illusion that you were something — someone — else.
And though I go to bed with you at night and plan a different future than one I had imagined, I still dream as if I were still that teenager with the world to conquer and love to offer.
I dream that secret admirers leave tulips on my car. You once bought me a single white rose from a roadside stand. I still have it, pressed in a journal that romanticized our love story. I dreamed that one day we would take it out and read it together, but now I keep it hidden away in a corner of the closet. That’s another man, not you.
In the evening as I prepare dinner, I imagine another man wrapping his arms around me, pressing his lips against my neck as I lean back and cherish his scent, the feeling of safety enveloping me. I dream of him turning me to face him, stroking my cheek, leaning in to kiss me, and I scold him playfully and tell him to wait until after dinner, daring to hope that he won’t listen to my protests. I dream of him stepping into place beside me to chop vegetables and fix ingredients as we sneak sideways longing glances at each other, hiding smiles, relishing the spiced aromas and visionary medley of color.
I dream of music with men other than you, laughter filling snow-fallen streets as my heels follow his rhythmic pattern while we cling to each other, taking his arm, embracing his hand as we walk home from a museum or gallery or concert. I dream of the song in his voice, the lightness in his step as he lifts my hand to his lips, as if it’s everyday, as if it’s second nature.
I dream about making love to other men — fueled by passion and desire, a tangle of sweat and sheets. Afterwards, he traces patterns on my skin as we talk about life and love and longing. There is poetry in his words, a song in his smile and we lay there for hours until the sun peeks through the cracks in the curtains, and when it spills light onto the bed, we make love again.
I dream of him, a fire burning in the woodstove, sneaking glances at each other over the brims of our books. The world is quiet except for our breathing — slow, steady — and the turning of the pages — smooth, deliberate. He’s across the room and yet we’re completely in sync, our minds in two separate worlds, and yet right there, together. Silence is comfortable, solitude is close.
I dream of him, wishing it were you instead.
But I’m not with him. And you’re not him. And as the television blares cheers and commentary, I watch from a chair on the other side of the room as you offer your own criticism against the players in your game. Your eyes never leave the screen, and as a new car commercial comes on, you briefly reach into your pants, past the fabric of your boxers.
You turn to look at me, catch me watching you, and you pull your hand out quickly, rest it on the back of the couch.
“What are you reading?” You ask, and I can’t tell if you’re really interested or not.
I hold up the book for you to see, and your eyes flick from the TV to the cover to my face and then back, and you nod slowly and sit up and lean forward as the game returns.
I settle back into the cushions and hold the book back up; my eyes are on the words, but I’m dreaming of them again, those other men, that other life, that other me.
“I love you.”
I look up, see you watching me, a boyish half-smile, eyes speaking in earnest, in truth. I start to smile, but in that moment you’re gone. You turn back to the TV, jump to your feet, hands in the air.
“Touchdown!”
But my smile stays and my heart lifts and for a second I’m that teenager, accepting the rose from your outstretched hand with a blush and a smile and a kiss.
And suddenly I’m no longer dreaming of that other life, no longer dreaming of those other men.
I’m with you again.
And that’s enough.
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Rhythm and Time
Rhythm and Time
by Susan Pogorzelski
This is where I need to be, right here where the sun is shining and the air is warm – just warm enough — and the breeze kicks up to blow stray pieces of hair against my field of vision, distorting the world in a haze of red and brown.
This is where I need to be, right now when kids are hollering and screeching in delight and it drowns out the beating of my own heart for the moment – just the moment – so I wonder if I exist or if it’s merely some blend of metaphysical being.
I press the toe of my shoe against the mulch and begin to rock, serenely, calmly, closing my eyes and feeling my body move in rhythm, in rhyme. And suddenly I can hear my heart beating again, as I knew it would. As I know it should.
Rock forward, one beat. Rock backward, one beat. I slip off my heels and they fall to the ground, kicking up a small cloud of dust. I stretch out my legs, pointing my stockinged toes, and relish the breeze as I lean back.
“What are you doing?”
One beat.
“I’m swinging.”
One beat.
She’s a little red-haired girl with freckles across her nose, staring at me from the next swing. She squints against the sunlight and scrunches up her nose the way kids do when they’re thinking – slow and deliberate. I drop my legs, letting the momentum ease.
“How come?”
“I guess I just felt like it,” I say kindly, though I can’t force as smile. This moment isn’t for that.
I can sense her studying me – my blouse, my dress pants, my fallen high heels. I look every bit the businesswoman and yet I feel every bit not.
“But you’re a grown up,” she says finally.
One beat. Just one.
I look towards my car parked in the lot among the minivans and SUVs and I suddenly want to switch cars, switch lives, with anyone here. I loathe the thought of getting into that car, of pulling out of that space, of making this moment a memory.
I’m here now. It’s where I want to be. It’s where I need to be if I want even a chance of remembering that my heart is still strong.
One beat.
I kick off again, pressing my toe against the earth as the rhythm starts again.
“Not really.”
And I look over and offer a grin, and she returns it with a sunny smile. And then we’re leaning back into the wind as we both race to reach what we’re after.
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Perfect Memory
Perfect Memory
by Susan Pogorzelski
The only thing she remembers is the dog. Not just his name, though that might have been enough, but she remembers the spot behind his ear that makes him growl in satisfaction, remembers the Christmas she found him under the tree, a gift from her family, remembers the days he would curl up beside her when she was sick in bed with the flu, even remembers that he has an upcoming appointment to the vet clinic the following month.
The neighbors in town who meet at the market shake their heads in lament and whisper that it had been a result of the trauma; the doctors nod knowingly as they converse at the nurses’ station and confirm that she had been in the cold water for too long, but not long enough.
She’s taken to wearing floral house dresses with lace collars and when I see her I notice that she rubs the fabric between her fingers. I try to remember if that’s a new habit, try to remember if I’ve ever seen her repeat that motion before.
She walks the dog at the same time every morning, skipping down the driveway, the dog waiting at the end of the long leash until she catches up to him. She pats him on the head and feeds him a biscuit from her pocket, shakes her finger at him teasingly and says that he won’t get another one unless he’s a good boy on their walk, but she knows that he will be, knows that he won’t run away again, knows that they’re inseparable now.
She remembers the dog, and the dog is happy to have her back and hasn’t left her side. This she knows as she sits on the grass, rubbing his belly and cooing words of adoration.
It’s the only thing she knows.
She closes the blinds during the day and opens them at night. She offers the neighborhood kids bottles of beer and invites the adults in for milk and cookies. She jars one bread roll at a time and forgets rotting peaches in the breadbox. She leaves full bottles for the milkman and sets out a bowl of Apple Juice for the cat.
But she remembers the dog. She crochets sweaters for him in the winter and feeds him chopped meat and white rice every evening. She claps her hands together in glee and recalls the first time he ever saw snow, tilts her head back and laughs with delight as he runs through the sprinkler. At night, the neighbors watch curiously through the window as she lifts his now arthritic body onto the couch, his head settling into her lap as she listens to classical music, stroking his fur rhythmically.
She remembers the dog. She doesn’t remember me.
She walks down the driveway to see me as I change the oil on my truck, the ballet slippers she’s taken to wearing sliding along the pavement, her fingers reaching up to remind herself that the lace is still there. I can feel her watching me as I tinker with something lose in the engine.
“You’ve always been a good neighbor, ain’t that so?” Her southern drawl is nothing new, though her voice is deeper, huskier.
“Yup,” I grunt and pick up a wrench, leaning into the engine.
“Have I known you long?”
“Since you’ve been here.”
She pauses, and I can tell that she’s trying to do the calculations in her head. We’ve had this conversation before.
“Well, Elvis is 10, so it must be at least ten years.”
“At least.”
And as I glance up, I can see that her face has changed, and there’s a smile on her lips.
“I remember when I first got Elvis — there was this tiny puppy waiting under the tree for me with a giant red bow wrapped around his neck like a collar. And when he saw me he howled and danced and fit so perfectly into my arms and I knew we were meant to be.”
“Who was he from?”
At this she pauses, and though I’m not facing her, I know that her smile is sliding into a frown, a cloud of puzzlement crossing her face.
“Why, no one. He was just there.”
I nod and lean back, grabbing the greasy rag to wipe my hands before giving up and sliding them across my jeans.
“He’s a good dog,” I say, and she lights up again, turning around to search the yard for him.
“The best,” she says, and she walks away, clapping her hands together as the dog runs up to greet her.
I sigh and turn back to my truck. This evening, like every evening before, I’ll prepare dinner for our kids and give them their baths and tell them their bedtime story. And when she opens up the curtains, I’ll close them. And when she goes to bed, I’ll lift Elvis up to be with her, holding him against me a little tighter.
For a moment, I understand her connection to this animal. For a moment, this dog is the tie that binds me to the woman I used to know. Because he’s the only thing she remembers. And I want to remember her.
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Linger
Linger
(Sequel to Layers)
by Susan Pogorzelski
“I made a mistake. And I don’t know how to take it back.”
His dark eyes held my gaze, but I couldn’t read his face, and as much as I wanted to turn away, I knew I couldn’t. I had started this, interrupted a night of casual conversation and old friendship, and I knew that I would be the one to end it.
I ended everything.
I could feel the December air wrapping around my legs, clinging to my stockings like the layer of frost that settled on the park lawn this late evening. Other couples strolled the pathway of the park, laughing, talking, walking, a woman huddling in the man’s dress coat as a shallow mist began to fall.
He wouldn’t be giving me his jacket this evening. We were too far past that.
I shook my head, reached into my handbag for my cigarettes, fetched around for a lighter, then gave up and slipped my gloves on over my shaking hands instead.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” His voice was low, even. I shivered, but whether it was from the night cold or my confession, I couldn’t know.
“I don’t want anything to change,” my voice faltered with doubt, and I suddenly longed to take it all back, this whole night, wishing that we could return to who we were before the sun set.
“Too late.” His stare had an edge, but there was only a soft honesty in his voice as he stood there, hands in his overcoat pockets, waiting. Waiting. As he always did. That was the part that infuriated me, how he always stood so calm and sure of himself, so patient with me. That’s why this had happened. That’s why he was to blame.
I looked at him, meeting his eyes, then focused my gaze on the couple in the distance as they moved further down along the path, only the tail end of a memory now.
The man put his arm around her as they turned a corner. I turned away.
I saw him pull his hand out of his pocket and glance at his watch, saw the subtle shift in his posture out of the corner of my eye as he opened his mouth to speak.
“Don’t go. Don’t go, not yet.” There was a plea in my voice, and I hated myself for it.
“I have to leave for London in the morning. I’m only in New York a few days, for the new year. You knew that.”
The new year. This new year that was supposed to bring so much promise, that now seemed so fragile, slipping away from me as every other year before it, deteriorating by the second.
“Don’t go.”
We were suspended in a moment, and that moment was about to be broken. I wanted to remember it, wanted to remember him, us, just as we were. But words were about to be spoken that, even in a whisper, would uproot our past, transform our future, and once, just this once, I wanted something to last.
He shifted his stance and sighed; in the lamplight, I could see the fog from his breath swirl into the air and then evaporate, and I thought that’s what it would be like, once these words were said. I wouldn’t be able to hold onto it any more than I could capture the small space between us.
“It’s cold,” he said, his voice still patient, still kind. “What are we doing here?”
“I’m afraid that this will change everything,” I whispered in reply.
I couldn’t look at him, but only past him, towards the lights of the city, where everything seemed safe and alive and loved.
“I’m afraid.” I said quietly, and I noticed he leaned forward, his body so close to mine, and I knew he was listening. “It’s not something you can fix, not something you can protect me from; I know you want to.”
And suddenly the city seemed so far away, the honking horns and late-night crowd a distant medley, the lights illuminating places I wouldn’t ever be able to reach.
It was over. The moment was over, and I knew it, and now there was no turning back.
“I made a mistake; I chose the wrong man. I chose the wrong man and now I’m afraid that I’ll spend my life wondering what happiness I could have known if I had, just once in my life, admitted that I loved you.”
It was done. Words that couldn’t be unspoken; a moment gone forever. I dared to look at him, but there was no expression on his face; he was looking past me, away from the city, away from us.
The words lingered on the cold air, and I wondered if I would feel his hand reaching for my own, his arms forgiving my confession as they encircled my chilled body. I wondered if I dared hope to hear those whispered words in reply.
He looked at me; I waited.
Then the moment passed, and I watched him walk away.
3 comments
God and Grief
God and Grief
by Susan Pogorzelski
God spoke to me today. I hadn’t heard from him in awhile, not since I disowned him twelve years ago, but today, through the voice of a precocious seven year old brat, he spoke to me.
And I think he told me to fuck off.
I’d been going to church since I was in diapers, Mom and Dad being those Holy Rollers that you dread. Mom keeps a pocket Bible in her purse and Dad sometimes pretends that he’s part of the clergy, the way he offered sermons to my sisters and I growing up.
I spent my Sundays in a tiny classroom in the back of the church, sitting on tacky orange and yellow plastic chairs only big enough for a preschooler as we all poured through the Bible, defiling sacred text by underlining verses and writing our “thoughts” in the margins. If I want to remember, I could probably still hear the scratching of the pens as the other kids in town wrote down whatever crap our teacher fed them. But I don’t.
I wonder what my teacher would say if she found my Bible now, cartoon drawings covering the canvas of the word of God.
Maybe that’s why God is giving me the old Fuck You now, through the voice of a seven year old child-demon, hurling obscenities at me through the slotted wood fence that separates our yards.
Today I turn thirty. And today is the day I bury my youngest sister.
Lucy was the only one of us to ever go to college. I had escaped to New York the minute I turned eighteen, trying to find some semblance of my old flickering self; like a light bulb on its last bit of mercury, I was about to fade out in this tiny hick of a town, smothered by Bible verse and God’s will. That day twelve years ago I hugged and kissed my Mom and Dad goodbye, offered false promises of visits to my younger sisters, and gave the church the middle finger as the Greyhound ambled past.
If God had smote me, I’d get why. I deserved it, after all. But I’ll never understand why he had to take Lucy. Or why, in that hospital room two days ago, despite my bargaining and pleas and all those Hail Mary’s, I couldn’t save her.
“Are you coming inside?”
I look up from the pinecone I’ve been twirling between my fingers, borrowed from the ancient tree in our front yard that the neighbors threaten to tear down every year ‘if those ugly things keep falling over their side of the fence.’ Mom is standing in her black dress and heels, a blue apron that Lucy had made in Home Ec. class around her waist. I wonder if Mom remembers that, or if tying it around her waist has just become habit.
“I need you to fill the bowls for the wake.”
As she says this, a hand flies up to her mouth and she breathes deeply, trying to stop whatever emotion is about to pour out.
I stand from the wooden swing that Dad had hung from one of the branches when we were kids, the seat rocking into the back of my legs.
“I’m coming,” I finally say, and because I don’t know what else to do, I awkwardly place an arm around her shoulders as we walk across the yard towards the house.
Perhaps today I’ll be of some use. Perhaps today I’ll finally start talking, and pray that God will listen.
Time Duration: 20 Minutes
Edits: 1
Prompts: a god speaks to you; borrowed from the ancient pine tree; I am of some use; fill white bowls; my flickering self
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Many of these stories have emerged from fiction exercises, utilizing prompts and a time limit. If applicable, the information is posted at the end of each story for reference. While these are not the final drafts, I do welcome feedback and constructive criticism.
God and Grief
Linger
Perfect Memory
Rhythm and Time
Worlds Apart
Metamorphosis
Layers
Power Storm
Ghost of You
Ghost of You
by Susan Pogorzelski
“So this is it, isn’t it. This is where it’s going to end.”
“Stop. You’re worrying for nothing; nothing’s ending.”
“Yeah it is.” She forced a smile, though her eyes were dark with something deeper. “It’s ok. I know that’s how this friendship goes. It’s good while it lasts and then we don’t talk for forever.” She chuckled, trying to keep the tone light. “I’m used to it by now.”
She turned away from him and stared at the dashboard in front of her. Outside, a gentle rain began to fall, and he shifted in his seat and flipped on the windshield wipers. Soon she was watching them, the steady rhythm that rocked back and forth, back and forth, back and forth — clearing the tiny drops of water that blurred the world for moments at a time.
“What are you thinking?” His voice was low, gentle, so gentle that she almost didn’t recognize it, and when she turned her head, she almost didn’t recognize him.
She shrugged.
“No, you do know. What are you thinking?”
She hated this about him — the way he pushed her and made her talk when he knew there were words she couldn’t bring herself to say.
“I’m thinking…” She paused and glanced out the front window again. “I’m thinking it’s really late. I should get going.”
She wanted him to stop her. She wanted the night to freeze, wanted this moment with him to go on forever. She wanted to remain in this car, under the parking lot lamp, where it was just him and her and the changing tracks of his radio.
“Ok.”
She nodded. “Ok.”
She gathered her purse and scarf, her hand hesitating on the door handle for a moment. She wanted him to reach out and take hold of her arm, tell her to wait, tell her-
“Thanks for coming to dinner. It was good seeing you.”
She smiled, words bubbling up from somewhere inside of her, words she wanted desperately to say, words that hung on her lips.
“Stay safe, ok?”
His eyes locked on hers as he nodded slowly. She opened the car door and stepped into the chilled air, pulling her car keys from her coat pocket. She heard his car shift into gear behind her, and she stood still for a moment as she heard the tires drive across the gravel, as he drove away from her.
She wished he would turn around and come back. She wished she could have said what she had really been thinking.
But he wouldn’t. She knew him and knew this. He would keep driving, and maybe he would call her on his way across the state line, but then those calls would become few and far between, like their visits, like they’d been for the past few weeks. Soon they would stop completely. And she would call him to share good news or seek out a needed friend, but she would hear his familiar recorded voice, promising a call back as soon as possible. He wouldn’t call.
He would forget her for those long winter months, and she would try to forget him until that one day when the trees began to show evidence of life and the weather turned warm again. His name would light up the screen on her phone, and she would hesitate and then answer.
She shook her head and crossed to her car, the lights from the alarm flashing twice as she unlocked the doors and sank into the front seat. She placed her key in the ignition, the radio clicking on automatically, but she didn’t follow him. She wanted a moment — a moment here in the solitude of the empty parking lot, illuminated by the single lamppost that loomed above her car. She watched as the raindrops fell across the windshield, fewer now, as if the rain cloud had passed, leaving only a gentle fog across the landscape, extending to the farmland that bordered the pavement.
She sighed and switched her car into drive and turned the radio up, turning the wheel towards the exit and pressing lightly on the gas.
She thought it had been different this time. She had let down her guard with him and laughed and cried. She had been the person he called when he needed to vent, needed an ear, needed a friend. He had been the first person she called to share good news; his was the number she reached for when she needed someone to lean on. And he had been there. It had felt different this time, like there was a chance.
A pair of headlights swept through her car as she crossed the parking lot. She slowed and glanced in her review mirror, watching as his car passed, red brake lights filling the night.
Her cell phone rang, his name lighting the screen. She glanced back in the mirror, saw him stepping out of the car, and she put her car in park and picked up the phone.
“What are you doing?” She asked.
“Why do you think that is?”
“What? I thought you were on your way home?”
“Why do you think that is — that we don’t talk. Why do you think that is?”
She shook her head. “I have no idea.”
He was still there, still in the review mirror. She lowered her hand; a moment later, she was crossing the parking lot towards him, stopping just a few feet away. She had a question in her eyes, but her lips remained closed, unable to form the words, unsure of what to say.
He opened his mouth, paused, then shifted his weight and placed his phone in his back pocket.
“Why did you say that?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It’s true. You and I — we’re locked in this permanent cycle where we get close and then I don’t hear from you for months. I hate that. I don’t get that. I didn’t want that to happen again this time.”
“Neither do I.”
She looked at his car, at the gravel that scattered the ground, at the dark horizon. Anything but him.
“I got attached,” she admitted. “I got attached, and I liked you being there. And that’s going to change again. I’m not ready for it.”
He crossed the space between them and touched her arm; she could feel the weight of his fingertips resting on her coat sleeve. She didn’t move away.
“I’ll be here-”
“No you won’t.“ She knew it as a matter of fact and couldn’t change it, though she wanted to. “You won’t because that’s just who you are. You’ll go away and you’ll forget about me for awhile. I don’t want to be forgotten again. Just — not this time.”
He put his arms around her, pulling her closer against him. She buried her nose against the soft cotton of his sweatshirt as she rested her head on his shoulder. His arms held her tightly, and her fingers tenderly touched the back of his neck. She closed her eyes, her heart sinking.
“So, this is goodbye. Isn’t it?” She hated the way her voice sounded — the hope that resided on the surface. She knew he could hear it, knew he would recognize every other emotion that was flooding through her right now.
“No.” She heard him say quietly, felt the faint shake of his head. “It’s not goodbye. I promise you. This isn’t goodbye.”
He held her tighter to him, and she inhaled slowly, suddenly unafraid of the moment when she’d have to let go.
2 commentsPower Storm
by Susan Pogorzelski
She broke the cookie in half and pulled out the tiny slip of paper.
“’Love lights up the world,’” she muttered, then rolled her eyes, crumpled it in a ball, and tossed it onto the coffee table. She leaned back against the couch and popped half the cookie into her mouth, chewing slowly.
A pint of the house rice and Chinese vegetables sat in front of her, chopsticks still in their red paper wrapper. Her fridge was stocked with leftover take-out from the week before, along with a quart of milk that she assumed was ready to turn. Her cupboards were bare except for a box of spaghetti noodles and a stockpile of spices that had never been touched. Tomorrow, she’ll throw all of those leftovers into a black trash bag and haul the boxes adorned with Chinese lettering, the half-eaten pizzas, the soda cups, down four flights of stairs to the dumpster.
A waste. It was all such a waste.
She leaned forward and scooped up a helping of vegetables with the plastic fork, took a bite, then picked up the tiny piece of paper again, straightening the creases between her fingers.
Outside, the rain pounded against the windowpane, distorting the view. Inside, the old TV crackled and buzzed, and she picked up the remote and turned the volume up, a melodic chorus of voices interspersed with a ringing bell and bright, colorful movement distracting her from the weather. Musicals seemed safer tonight, fooling her into believing in fairytales and happily-ever-afters.
Thunder cracked against the sky and a burst of lightning illuminated the room. A moment later, the lightbulb over the stove flickered, the TV plunged into silence, and the space heater beside her hummed, then dimmed.
“Shit.”
She stood and crossed the room to the window, peering at the apartment building next door. All was dark there, too, but further down the block, lights still glowed along the sidewalks.
She hated this city.
Cursing, she grabbed her jacket and scarf and locked her apartment behind her. On the street, taxi cabs paused at flashing yellow lights, honking in time with the windshield wipers. She rounded the corner on the next block, ducking inside a phone booth to avoid the steady rain that was already forming mass puddles at her feet. She fished in her pocket for change and tested the phone for a dial tone.
“It’s me,” she said as soon as the other line picked up. “No, I’m fine. It’s the rain, you can’t hear a damned thing. Listen, the storm knocked out my power.”
She could barely hear his response, wasn’t sure if there was an invitation among the thunder.
“So, I’m coming over. I’m leaving now.” She hung up, wrapped her scarf around her head for shelter, and stepped into the cold.
His apartment had a doorman who greeted her warmly and asked her how she’d been. She didn’t stop to ask how his wife was or congratulate his daughter on her first born. Instead she forced a rigid smile and hurried to the elevators, savoring the warmth, the shelter, the light. Her shoes stepped silently along the carpeted hallway, though they left trails of water droplets as she approached his door.
“You’re crazy.”
“Nice to see you, too.”
“What are you thinking, coming out here in this?”
She edged past him and unwrapped the scarf from her head, running her fingers through damp hair, easing the tangles. “I was thinking that you have a warm apartment with all the lights on.”
“I can’t guarantee they’ll stay on,” he crossed over to the window just as lightning intersected the sky.
“Last time my power went out, it didn’t come on until the next morning. I wasn’t willing to take that chance.”
“I seem to remember keeping warm all night.”
She glared at his smirk. “I’m not willing to take that chance, either.”
He shook his head and pointed to the bedroom. “Help yourself. I’ll put on some coffee.”
“No sugar?”
He nodded, a trace of a familiar smile appearing at the corner of his mouth.
“No sugar.”
Everything as she remembered. Everything the same. Socks were in the bottom drawer, sweatpants folded in the second. She stripped out of her damp clothes, savoring the feel of dry cotton against her bare skin, and wrung her hair out in the bathtub.
When she walked back into the living room, he handed her a mug — a black one with light blue polka dots and a small chip on the bottom rim. She loved this mug; she had claimed it the first time she ever came here, felt it was hers, though it belonged to him.
“I should’ve taken this with me,” she mused as she inhaled the strong scent, folding her hands around the mug and letting the steam warm her face.
“You didn’t want anything.”
“No. I didn’t.”
“You wanted to be left alone.”
“Still do.”
“Why?”
She puckered her lips and blew gently on the dark liquid, watching the ripples expand, then fade away.
“Because.”
“That’s a shit answer.”
She jerked her head up at this. His hands were placed flat against the kitchen counter, his shoulders drawn defiantly. He was wearing a t-shirt of his favorite baseball team – his hometown team – and he had that five o’clock shadow that she often teased him about but secretly loved.
It was all the same.
“I didn’t come here for closure.”
“Sure you did.”
Everything was the same, including that self-assuredness, that honesty that both frightened and attracted her.
“My power went out…” she heard her voice rise, an octave higher than she would like him to notice.
“And I’m the only one you know in the city?”
“I don’t want to fight.”
He laughed, a forced chuckle. “I don’t either.”
“So then stop pissing me off.” She crossed the room, tucked her legs beneath her, and fell into cushions of the couch. “My life was perfect before.”
“Your life was shit before.”
“True.” Her eyes roamed over his movie collection, drinking in the titles. The Music Man. Singing In the Rain. Bye Bye Birdie. She had almost forgotten this about him, forgotten how this had surprised her. He always seemed to surprise her.
He ran a hand over his face and shifted so that his shoulder was leaning against the television cabinet, arms folded across his chest as he watched her.
“So you did.”
“Did what?”
He was talking like she had answered a question, and all she could do was listen as he responded. “Before you met me…You didn’t want to care about someone. But you did.”
“You didn’t give me much choice.”
“You could’ve walked away then.”
“I didn’t want to.”
“But you could’ve.” He paused, glanced out the window, then back to her. “You could’ve.”
She looked away, following his gaze towards the window where rainwater zigzaged patterns down the glass, blurring the world so that it felt very small, very secluded. Very much him and her.
She heard him shift, felt his movement as a chill down her arm as he sat on the opposite couch, leaning towards her, forearms resting against his knees. There was a question in his eyes, not verbalized but hanging on the air between them, and she imagined she could see it, could reach for it and grasp it in her hand.
She sighed. “It would have ended sooner or later.”
“So why not later?”
“It happened so fast.”
“So you got scared.”
A short nod. He hung his head between his arms for a moment, then lifted his eyes to meet her gaze, the lamplight reflecting pools of blue and holding hers the way they used to so that she couldn’t look away, not even if she wanted to. She caught her breath, waited.
“You have to grow up sometime.”
“Fuck you.”
He raised his eyebrows in surprise or amusement, she never really could tell which with that half-smile.
“We did that, remember? We were pretty good at that, too.”
She rolled her eyes, could feel her blood warm in frustration. “You were just as much the coward as I was.”
“Don’t.” The smile faded and he stood up, grabbing the mug from her hands. “Don’t pin this on me. Just because it makes it easier for you, don’t pin it on me.”
“You think it was easy?” Her voice followed him into the kitchen, and she watched as he flipped the mug over to drain the liquid, then paused and set it down carefully on the counter. He didn’t say a word, waited for her to continue without looking at her. “I got scared, yes, but you didn’t stop me, didn’t call me. You were the one that decided you didn’t want me anymore. So what exactly was I supposed to do with that?”
“I did want you!” His raised voice matched her own, and she knew that he was feeling the same frustration, could feel the air charge between them, like the storm outside those walls. “I did, but you walked away from it because you were too shit-scared to admit there was something there. That was your choice. So don’t pin it on me. As far as I’m concerned, there are two people here to blame.”
A clap of thunder; the lights flickered but refused to go out. He took a sip from his own full mug, swallowed slowly. She turned her attention away from him, picked at a loose thread on the cuff of her – his – sweatpants.
“What are you really doing here?” His voice sounded tired as he walked closer to her. She kept her eyes down, not wanting to get caught in that trap, pausing to formulate a response and hesitating between honesty and lie.
“I needed–”
“What.”
“I need-”
“What?”
“Will you shut up already? You. Happy? God.”
He sat back down across from her and remained silent. She could never tell what he was thinking, never could predict what he was going to say. A thousand possible responses could flash through her mind in an instant, but she knew that each one of those would be wrong.
She suddenly wished she could take it all back, suddenly wished she had called anyone but him. She wished that she knew enough by now not to give into impulse, wished that she hadn’t started this all over again in the first place.
If only because she knew exactly how it was going to end.
It was how it always ended.
Whether they wound up entangled in the bed sheets or she walked home now, alone, in the rain, this night would only end in goodbye.
And she wasn’t ready for it.
She never was.
“Say something.” She hated herself for this plea, but couldn’t bear his silence.
“What do you want me to say?”
“Anything. Something.”
He shook his head. “I can’t.”
And that was it. She knew which path this goodbye would take. She stood and pulled on her shoes; he watched her as she moved towards the doorway, gathering her things, then hurried to meet her there. For a second, she turned around, imagining what this moment should mean, knowing what wouldn’t ever come.
Wordlessly, she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a tiny slip of paper. She glanced at it, then held it out. He looked down as it passed between their hands.
“It was getting cold in my apartment,” she said, and though she tried to make her voice devoid of any emotion, she felt the disappointment slipping through. “Thanks for letting me stop by.”
She left his doorway, wandered back into the elevator, and watched the numbers descend. The doorman nodded to her but didn’t say a word as she crossed through the lobby. At the double-glass doors, she waited a moment more, drinking in the light, then she stepped back out into the dark, rain-teared streets, without knowing where one ended and she began.
2 commentsLayers
(Prequel to Linger)
by Susan Pogorzelski
His tan overcoat lay draped across the overstuffed armchair, a corner of the fabric barely grazing the beige carpet below it. Outside, the raindrops created awkward, mesmerizing movements as they sketched patterns down the windowpane before disappearing altogether.
His coat was still damp, and for a second, my fingers reached out to trace the outer lining, as if to reassure myself that it was still there, that he was still here.
I turned back to the window, my heels digging into the plush carpet, and stared out at a city that was now just a kaleidoscope of color against a backdrop of night, a fast-moving blur of orange and blue hues.
I paused to tap the cigarette against the glass ashtray resting on the sill; the ashes collecting like a puddle, forming a mountain of the forgotten, discarded.
“Are you ready?”
No. I wouldn’t ever be ready, not for this. Not for what I knew would eventually come.
I exhaled slowly, smoke curling into the air before evaporating, then pressed the cigarette against the molded glass and turned to face him.
“What’s the matter?”
He always did that, always knew something was wrong just by a silence.
“Nothing’s the matter.”
He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head. “You’re not telling the truth.”
He always did that, too – had a way with his words, saying things the way no other man would say them, his accent softly coaxing a need for confession, making a person believe in forgiveness, in possibility. In everything.
I shook my head, picked up his overcoat, and shook out the wrinkles.
“I hate this weather. The rain, it makes everything harder, seem colder than it really is. Your coat is still damp, are you sure you want to wear it?”
He crossed the room and took the coat from my hands, a soft smile turning up the corners of his mouth.
“A little rain never hurt anyone, really.”
I felt strange, empty, now, as if a part of him had already gone and I wanted to ask for the coat back, wanted to have something that belonged to him belong to me.
“Reservations are at eight, down the road, there.” He paused, mistaking my hesitation, and motioned to the suite’s kitchenette. “We can stay in tonight, if you prefer.”
“No, no, of course not. Dinner is fine, dinner is good.”
Dinner was safe.
“I’ll ring for a taxi-”
“No, let’s walk,” I interrupted him. “I’d rather walk.”
He nodded and reached for the light switch, opening the door as I gathered my coat and purse. From where I was standing I could see the brightly-lit hallway: the beige tile floor, the decorative flowers on the mahogany table, and the still-life of fruit hanging against the drab, paisley wallpaper.
“Wait,” I whispered. Words hung on the air, words that wouldn’t, couldn’t come.
He turned his head and suddenly I knew that I needed to keep these moments for as long as I could, knew that if it was for even just a moment, it would be enough. I wanted to hold onto it, hold onto this.
Because I was certain that once I walked out that door, once I left this building, time would catch up, move forward. And everything would make its way towards tomorrow.
He shut the door, the light ebbing so that only the table lamp illuminated the room in a soft, subtle glow. He moved towards me, standing just inches away.
“What is it?” His voice was low, concerned, his brown eyes searching my own for answers. I wondered if he saw it then, wondered if he knew. I opened my mouth to speak, but shrugged instead.
“Whatever it is, you can tell me.”
And I knew that I could, knew, then, that I would.
“It’s nothing,” I said slowly, quietly. And I smiled and reached up to stroke his arm in silent gratitude. “Let’s enjoy our evening.”
He nodded, took my coat from my hands, and held it up, waiting patiently for me. Waiting. Always waiting. I wanted to wait some more, to delay the night.
“I hate this weather,” I said as I turned around and slipped my arms through the sleeves. “It’s just that it’s so cold out – it’s such a cold rain, isn’t it? And it goes right through you, right down to the core. Like a chill you can’t shake. And it can last or it can be over in a second and you never really know which. But either way, it will always be there, traces of it…”
Like a greeting or a goodbye.
Or a confession.
“I never knew you to be afraid of a little rain.”
“Oh, it’s not the rain. I’m afraid of the change.”
I felt him pause, and I caught my breath, his hand lingering lightly on my arm. For a moment, I thought I could feel the warmth of his touch through the heavy layers, reassuring, calming. He was always so calming.
“Nothing’s changing,” he said quietly, though his tone held a question that I couldn’t answer. And I knew if I looked into his eyes I would be forced to, and I wasn’t ready. Not yet.
Something was changing, and tomorrow it would be different. One way or another, he would be gone, and I wouldn’t be able to stop any of it from happening.
“You’re right,” was all I could say. “You’re right.” I wrapped my scarf around my neck and slipped my gloves on over my hands. I sighed, “I really hate this weather.”
He was a moment behind me as I crossed towards the door; I could feel him watching me as I crossed the threshold into the hallway, my heels clicking on the tile as I stepped past the vase of blooming artificial flowers and the portrait of painted fruit.
The moment was gone and we were moving forward again, past a greeting, towards a goodbye, and in between, I knew, there would lie a confession.
4 commentsMetamorphosis
by Susan Pogorzelski
My uncle’s son and I are a year apart and separated by fifty acres of farmland. Our farm was always better, he would say, because we have a creek running through the back woods where we can search for slugs and fresh worms, but his has a pond with a rope swing. I was always too little for the rope swing, but one day, I would tell him, I would be tall enough, old enough.
During the summers we would play spy and watch our dads work the tractors in the fields or hunt down lost jewelry outside for our moms. Our moms always put a stop to it once they found us trampling through their gardens. In the winter we built igloos and snow forts and made snow angels just below the porch light, so that when we were finally coaxed in for hot chocolate and looked out the window, they really did look like sleeping angels, with halos of light that made them seem warm and glowing, just like I felt, tucked inside the farmhouse on that December piece of night.
In the spring, he and I would hunt for birds nests. When his friends were over, they talked about finding eggs and chucking them at Mrs. Simpson’s house, but I would shout at them about the babies and the mom-bird until my face grew hot and I began to cry, and they would run off and I would sniffle and look up into the treetop, the sun glistening through the wind-blown leaves, and imagine that the birds there were thanking me.
He wasn’t like his friends, though. Once we watched a baby bird try to fly, only to fall out of the nest. His sister’s cat was watching, too, and pounced as soon as the bird hit the ground. I ran behind him, our sweet tea forgotten on the porch as we shooed the cat away. The bird was hopping around on feet that reminded me of twigs found in the woods; one wing was folded back, the brittle bones broken by its fall. We found a cardboard shoe box and stuffed it full of toilet paper and tried to nurse it back to health, but it died two days later. I didn’t see him for days after that, not even for the funeral I begged my dad to give it.
School divided us once the fall came, and although we took the same yellow school bus every morning, he would wordlessly shuffle down the aisle towards the back where his friends hollered and threw paper bits at the back of pony-tailed girls while I slid against the window in the front seat to watch the farmland pass in a blur of wheat and leaves. On the walk home from the bus stop I would ask him who he ate lunch with and what did he learn that day and was it easier than my grade, and he would respond with words like “people” and “stuff” and “yup” and kick at the dirt with his sneaker.
We used to walk back to his house every afternoon, where my aunt offered us chocolate chip cookies and cold milk in large glasses as we sat at the kitchen table to do our homework before being allowed out to play, before he was called in to dinner and I was called home. I always let him have the last cookie and he would look over my math and show me what I was doing wrong. Both of us would watch for the clock to shift to four o’clock and then our pencils would drop onto our books and chairs would scrape across the tile and the screen door would bounce against the grooves as it slammed shut and we ran outside to play.
That was another year, another time. That was a different him. That new school year, I hopped down the bus steps and waited for him to follow, eager to point out the empty beehive I’d found earlier that morning on the way to the bus stop, but he didn’t even pause before starting down the path to his house, the tires of the bus kicking up waves of dust beside us as it drove past, down another road, towards another stop.
I waited for him to turn around, to tell me to hurry up and catch up, that he would eat all my cookies if I was going to be such a slowpoke. But he kept walking, adjusting the straps of his bag against his hunched shoulders, sneakers kicking loose stones and leaving faint tracks in the dirt that would quickly be covered up, like the ones from all the mornings before, no trace at all that we had once stood there.
I should have known then that we were becoming different people, that snow angels and trips to the creek were distant days, but every afternoon I watched him walk further and further away, still wanting to cling to those memories, seek them out for comfort, not willing to let them go. Like the mother returning year after year to that same oak tree, still looking for her fallen bird.
2 commentsWorlds Apart
by Susan Pogorzelski
I dream of other men, even though I’m with you. Even as I sit here, in the same room with you, my thoughts are on what could have been, what we could have been, and what had changed me all those years ago.
I’m not the same woman that I was once upon a time, dreaming of my happily ever ending. I’m not the same woman as I was when we first met, when I thought you could fulfill my every fantasy, when I thought I could live with the illusion that you were something — someone — else.
And though I go to bed with you at night and plan a different future than one I had imagined, I still dream as if I were still that teenager with the world to conquer and love to offer.
I dream that secret admirers leave tulips on my car. You once bought me a single white rose from a roadside stand. I still have it, pressed in a journal that romanticized our love story. I dreamed that one day we would take it out and read it together, but now I keep it hidden away in a corner of the closet. That’s another man, not you.
In the evening as I prepare dinner, I imagine another man wrapping his arms around me, pressing his lips against my neck as I lean back and cherish his scent, the feeling of safety enveloping me. I dream of him turning me to face him, stroking my cheek, leaning in to kiss me, and I scold him playfully and tell him to wait until after dinner, daring to hope that he won’t listen to my protests. I dream of him stepping into place beside me to chop vegetables and fix ingredients as we sneak sideways longing glances at each other, hiding smiles, relishing the spiced aromas and visionary medley of color.
I dream of music with men other than you, laughter filling snow-fallen streets as my heels follow his rhythmic pattern while we cling to each other, taking his arm, embracing his hand as we walk home from a museum or gallery or concert. I dream of the song in his voice, the lightness in his step as he lifts my hand to his lips, as if it’s everyday, as if it’s second nature.
I dream about making love to other men — fueled by passion and desire, a tangle of sweat and sheets. Afterwards, he traces patterns on my skin as we talk about life and love and longing. There is poetry in his words, a song in his smile and we lay there for hours until the sun peeks through the cracks in the curtains, and when it spills light onto the bed, we make love again.
I dream of him, a fire burning in the woodstove, sneaking glances at each other over the brims of our books. The world is quiet except for our breathing — slow, steady — and the turning of the pages — smooth, deliberate. He’s across the room and yet we’re completely in sync, our minds in two separate worlds, and yet right there, together. Silence is comfortable, solitude is close.
I dream of him, wishing it were you instead.
But I’m not with him. And you’re not him. And as the television blares cheers and commentary, I watch from a chair on the other side of the room as you offer your own criticism against the players in your game. Your eyes never leave the screen, and as a new car commercial comes on, you briefly reach into your pants, past the fabric of your boxers.
You turn to look at me, catch me watching you, and you pull your hand out quickly, rest it on the back of the couch.
“What are you reading?” You ask, and I can’t tell if you’re really interested or not.
I hold up the book for you to see, and your eyes flick from the TV to the cover to my face and then back, and you nod slowly and sit up and lean forward as the game returns.
I settle back into the cushions and hold the book back up; my eyes are on the words, but I’m dreaming of them again, those other men, that other life, that other me.
“I love you.”
I look up, see you watching me, a boyish half-smile, eyes speaking in earnest, in truth. I start to smile, but in that moment you’re gone. You turn back to the TV, jump to your feet, hands in the air.
“Touchdown!”
But my smile stays and my heart lifts and for a second I’m that teenager, accepting the rose from your outstretched hand with a blush and a smile and a kiss.
And suddenly I’m no longer dreaming of that other life, no longer dreaming of those other men.
I’m with you again.
And that’s enough.
4 commentsRhythm and Time
by Susan Pogorzelski
This is where I need to be, right here where the sun is shining and the air is warm – just warm enough — and the breeze kicks up to blow stray pieces of hair against my field of vision, distorting the world in a haze of red and brown.
This is where I need to be, right now when kids are hollering and screeching in delight and it drowns out the beating of my own heart for the moment – just the moment – so I wonder if I exist or if it’s merely some blend of metaphysical being.
I press the toe of my shoe against the mulch and begin to rock, serenely, calmly, closing my eyes and feeling my body move in rhythm, in rhyme. And suddenly I can hear my heart beating again, as I knew it would. As I know it should.
Rock forward, one beat. Rock backward, one beat. I slip off my heels and they fall to the ground, kicking up a small cloud of dust. I stretch out my legs, pointing my stockinged toes, and relish the breeze as I lean back.
“What are you doing?”
One beat.
“I’m swinging.”
One beat.
She’s a little red-haired girl with freckles across her nose, staring at me from the next swing. She squints against the sunlight and scrunches up her nose the way kids do when they’re thinking – slow and deliberate. I drop my legs, letting the momentum ease.
“How come?”
“I guess I just felt like it,” I say kindly, though I can’t force as smile. This moment isn’t for that.
I can sense her studying me – my blouse, my dress pants, my fallen high heels. I look every bit the businesswoman and yet I feel every bit not.
“But you’re a grown up,” she says finally.
One beat. Just one.
I look towards my car parked in the lot among the minivans and SUVs and I suddenly want to switch cars, switch lives, with anyone here. I loathe the thought of getting into that car, of pulling out of that space, of making this moment a memory.
I’m here now. It’s where I want to be. It’s where I need to be if I want even a chance of remembering that my heart is still strong.
One beat.
I kick off again, pressing my toe against the earth as the rhythm starts again.
“Not really.”
And I look over and offer a grin, and she returns it with a sunny smile. And then we’re leaning back into the wind as we both race to reach what we’re after.
1 commentPerfect Memory
by Susan Pogorzelski
The only thing she remembers is the dog. Not just his name, though that might have been enough, but she remembers the spot behind his ear that makes him growl in satisfaction, remembers the Christmas she found him under the tree, a gift from her family, remembers the days he would curl up beside her when she was sick in bed with the flu, even remembers that he has an upcoming appointment to the vet clinic the following month.
The neighbors in town who meet at the market shake their heads in lament and whisper that it had been a result of the trauma; the doctors nod knowingly as they converse at the nurses’ station and confirm that she had been in the cold water for too long, but not long enough.
She’s taken to wearing floral house dresses with lace collars and when I see her I notice that she rubs the fabric between her fingers. I try to remember if that’s a new habit, try to remember if I’ve ever seen her repeat that motion before.
She walks the dog at the same time every morning, skipping down the driveway, the dog waiting at the end of the long leash until she catches up to him. She pats him on the head and feeds him a biscuit from her pocket, shakes her finger at him teasingly and says that he won’t get another one unless he’s a good boy on their walk, but she knows that he will be, knows that he won’t run away again, knows that they’re inseparable now.
She remembers the dog, and the dog is happy to have her back and hasn’t left her side. This she knows as she sits on the grass, rubbing his belly and cooing words of adoration.
It’s the only thing she knows.
She closes the blinds during the day and opens them at night. She offers the neighborhood kids bottles of beer and invites the adults in for milk and cookies. She jars one bread roll at a time and forgets rotting peaches in the breadbox. She leaves full bottles for the milkman and sets out a bowl of Apple Juice for the cat.
But she remembers the dog. She crochets sweaters for him in the winter and feeds him chopped meat and white rice every evening. She claps her hands together in glee and recalls the first time he ever saw snow, tilts her head back and laughs with delight as he runs through the sprinkler. At night, the neighbors watch curiously through the window as she lifts his now arthritic body onto the couch, his head settling into her lap as she listens to classical music, stroking his fur rhythmically.
She remembers the dog. She doesn’t remember me.
She walks down the driveway to see me as I change the oil on my truck, the ballet slippers she’s taken to wearing sliding along the pavement, her fingers reaching up to remind herself that the lace is still there. I can feel her watching me as I tinker with something lose in the engine.
“You’ve always been a good neighbor, ain’t that so?” Her southern drawl is nothing new, though her voice is deeper, huskier.
“Yup,” I grunt and pick up a wrench, leaning into the engine.
“Have I known you long?”
“Since you’ve been here.”
She pauses, and I can tell that she’s trying to do the calculations in her head. We’ve had this conversation before.
“Well, Elvis is 10, so it must be at least ten years.”
“At least.”
And as I glance up, I can see that her face has changed, and there’s a smile on her lips.
“I remember when I first got Elvis — there was this tiny puppy waiting under the tree for me with a giant red bow wrapped around his neck like a collar. And when he saw me he howled and danced and fit so perfectly into my arms and I knew we were meant to be.”
“Who was he from?”
At this she pauses, and though I’m not facing her, I know that her smile is sliding into a frown, a cloud of puzzlement crossing her face.
“Why, no one. He was just there.”
I nod and lean back, grabbing the greasy rag to wipe my hands before giving up and sliding them across my jeans.
“He’s a good dog,” I say, and she lights up again, turning around to search the yard for him.
“The best,” she says, and she walks away, clapping her hands together as the dog runs up to greet her.
I sigh and turn back to my truck. This evening, like every evening before, I’ll prepare dinner for our kids and give them their baths and tell them their bedtime story. And when she opens up the curtains, I’ll close them. And when she goes to bed, I’ll lift Elvis up to be with her, holding him against me a little tighter.
For a moment, I understand her connection to this animal. For a moment, this dog is the tie that binds me to the woman I used to know. Because he’s the only thing she remembers. And I want to remember her.
2 commentsLinger
(Sequel to Layers)
by Susan Pogorzelski
“I made a mistake. And I don’t know how to take it back.”
His dark eyes held my gaze, but I couldn’t read his face, and as much as I wanted to turn away, I knew I couldn’t. I had started this, interrupted a night of casual conversation and old friendship, and I knew that I would be the one to end it.
I ended everything.
I could feel the December air wrapping around my legs, clinging to my stockings like the layer of frost that settled on the park lawn this late evening. Other couples strolled the pathway of the park, laughing, talking, walking, a woman huddling in the man’s dress coat as a shallow mist began to fall.
He wouldn’t be giving me his jacket this evening. We were too far past that.
I shook my head, reached into my handbag for my cigarettes, fetched around for a lighter, then gave up and slipped my gloves on over my shaking hands instead.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” His voice was low, even. I shivered, but whether it was from the night cold or my confession, I couldn’t know.
“I don’t want anything to change,” my voice faltered with doubt, and I suddenly longed to take it all back, this whole night, wishing that we could return to who we were before the sun set.
“Too late.” His stare had an edge, but there was only a soft honesty in his voice as he stood there, hands in his overcoat pockets, waiting. Waiting. As he always did. That was the part that infuriated me, how he always stood so calm and sure of himself, so patient with me. That’s why this had happened. That’s why he was to blame.
I looked at him, meeting his eyes, then focused my gaze on the couple in the distance as they moved further down along the path, only the tail end of a memory now.
The man put his arm around her as they turned a corner. I turned away.
I saw him pull his hand out of his pocket and glance at his watch, saw the subtle shift in his posture out of the corner of my eye as he opened his mouth to speak.
“Don’t go. Don’t go, not yet.” There was a plea in my voice, and I hated myself for it.
“I have to leave for London in the morning. I’m only in New York a few days, for the new year. You knew that.”
The new year. This new year that was supposed to bring so much promise, that now seemed so fragile, slipping away from me as every other year before it, deteriorating by the second.
“Don’t go.”
We were suspended in a moment, and that moment was about to be broken. I wanted to remember it, wanted to remember him, us, just as we were. But words were about to be spoken that, even in a whisper, would uproot our past, transform our future, and once, just this once, I wanted something to last.
He shifted his stance and sighed; in the lamplight, I could see the fog from his breath swirl into the air and then evaporate, and I thought that’s what it would be like, once these words were said. I wouldn’t be able to hold onto it any more than I could capture the small space between us.
“It’s cold,” he said, his voice still patient, still kind. “What are we doing here?”
“I’m afraid that this will change everything,” I whispered in reply.
I couldn’t look at him, but only past him, towards the lights of the city, where everything seemed safe and alive and loved.
“I’m afraid.” I said quietly, and I noticed he leaned forward, his body so close to mine, and I knew he was listening. “It’s not something you can fix, not something you can protect me from; I know you want to.”
And suddenly the city seemed so far away, the honking horns and late-night crowd a distant medley, the lights illuminating places I wouldn’t ever be able to reach.
It was over. The moment was over, and I knew it, and now there was no turning back.
“I made a mistake; I chose the wrong man. I chose the wrong man and now I’m afraid that I’ll spend my life wondering what happiness I could have known if I had, just once in my life, admitted that I loved you.”
It was done. Words that couldn’t be unspoken; a moment gone forever. I dared to look at him, but there was no expression on his face; he was looking past me, away from the city, away from us.
The words lingered on the cold air, and I wondered if I would feel his hand reaching for my own, his arms forgiving my confession as they encircled my chilled body. I wondered if I dared hope to hear those whispered words in reply.
He looked at me; I waited.
Then the moment passed, and I watched him walk away.
3 commentsGod and Grief
by Susan Pogorzelski
God spoke to me today. I hadn’t heard from him in awhile, not since I disowned him twelve years ago, but today, through the voice of a precocious seven year old brat, he spoke to me.
And I think he told me to fuck off.
I’d been going to church since I was in diapers, Mom and Dad being those Holy Rollers that you dread. Mom keeps a pocket Bible in her purse and Dad sometimes pretends that he’s part of the clergy, the way he offered sermons to my sisters and I growing up.
I spent my Sundays in a tiny classroom in the back of the church, sitting on tacky orange and yellow plastic chairs only big enough for a preschooler as we all poured through the Bible, defiling sacred text by underlining verses and writing our “thoughts” in the margins. If I want to remember, I could probably still hear the scratching of the pens as the other kids in town wrote down whatever crap our teacher fed them. But I don’t.
I wonder what my teacher would say if she found my Bible now, cartoon drawings covering the canvas of the word of God.
Maybe that’s why God is giving me the old Fuck You now, through the voice of a seven year old child-demon, hurling obscenities at me through the slotted wood fence that separates our yards.
Today I turn thirty. And today is the day I bury my youngest sister.
Lucy was the only one of us to ever go to college. I had escaped to New York the minute I turned eighteen, trying to find some semblance of my old flickering self; like a light bulb on its last bit of mercury, I was about to fade out in this tiny hick of a town, smothered by Bible verse and God’s will. That day twelve years ago I hugged and kissed my Mom and Dad goodbye, offered false promises of visits to my younger sisters, and gave the church the middle finger as the Greyhound ambled past.
If God had smote me, I’d get why. I deserved it, after all. But I’ll never understand why he had to take Lucy. Or why, in that hospital room two days ago, despite my bargaining and pleas and all those Hail Mary’s, I couldn’t save her.
“Are you coming inside?”
I look up from the pinecone I’ve been twirling between my fingers, borrowed from the ancient tree in our front yard that the neighbors threaten to tear down every year ‘if those ugly things keep falling over their side of the fence.’ Mom is standing in her black dress and heels, a blue apron that Lucy had made in Home Ec. class around her waist. I wonder if Mom remembers that, or if tying it around her waist has just become habit.
“I need you to fill the bowls for the wake.”
As she says this, a hand flies up to her mouth and she breathes deeply, trying to stop whatever emotion is about to pour out.
I stand from the wooden swing that Dad had hung from one of the branches when we were kids, the seat rocking into the back of my legs.
“I’m coming,” I finally say, and because I don’t know what else to do, I awkwardly place an arm around her shoulders as we walk across the yard towards the house.
Perhaps today I’ll be of some use. Perhaps today I’ll finally start talking, and pray that God will listen.
Time Duration: 20 Minutes
Edits: 1
Prompts: a god speaks to you; borrowed from the ancient pine tree; I am of some use; fill white bowls; my flickering self
