I heard his gentle breathing. His face was so close to mine that he probably saw downy hair on my cheeks sway with his breaths. I stayed still, willing my eyelids to remain shut. He hummed softly. I wanted to pull the pillow over my face but a movement, any movement, would betray my awake state. He snapped his fingers close to my right ear and brought on the inevitable flutter of my eyelashes. Alackaday, outsmarted by my five-year-old nephew! “Good morning!” he chimed. “Are you awake?” I groaned and covered my face, hiding the smile brought upon his antics.
She rarely drank, but when she did, she went all the way, downing tart concoctions with sweet names, like Seabreeze that slid down as easily as their breezy names. Could she hold the liquor? Not really. It became evident when she staggered her way to the ladies room. She entered the stall and tugged her one piece. Halfway down, her head spun and the world tumbled below her footing. She desperately reached out to hold on, but beach bathrooms are slippery and inadvertently pushed the door open. She fell. Splat on her back, her bosoms exposed for all to see.
The fabric shop was dimly lit, a ruse to disguise the floating dust. My Home Economics class went on excursion to choose material for our first project: an A-line skirt. I knew nothing about sewing. I knew less about choosing. I wore uniforms to school and my mother purchased all our outfits, including Dad’s. I walked up and down the stuffy aisles, dizzy from the wide array of fabrics. Blues, greens, yellows. Silks, cottons, satins. Prints, solids. A soft pink with ballerinas in various poses caught my eye. No other fabric would do. I purchased it with illusions of elegance.
The winter has been long and harsh and my body feels weary. Like the caterpillar, I long to wrap myself into a cocoon and remain dormant to later emerge as a new and improved self. Perhaps that’s the purpose of dying. Perhaps we die to later emerge transformed; an ethereal being that brings beauty to the lives of others much like a butterfly brings to ours. Not a day goes by without my thinking of my grandmother. Perhaps it’s her spirit that accompanies me and points out the beauty in our world so that one day I too can guide.