Raspberries

The snowflakes caught in her eyelashes.  They seemed to make her eyes look sunken.  When had she become so frail?
Her spindly arms reached out for my own, and when I took her hand I felt how dappled her skin felt.
How long had it been?
Years.  Many years.
I remember running in her backyard.  I use that term loosely.  She had this little cottage-- very homey.  Quilts everywhere.  Cats.  And the smell... of contentment.  It was a well lived in home.
But the home itself was not the cottage, it was the garden-- or yard.
Filled with fresh strawberries, watermelon, apple trees, vegetables such as cucumbers, lettuce, turnips, onions.  It was endless.  But there was one favourite. The raspberries.
She would come out with us, and we would pick basket fulls.  Eat them while we were picking.  Then we would make jams with some of it, but eat most of them with a bit of cream.
If there is a heaven, this would be my own.  She was so quiet but soulful.  She always seemed to look old.  I know that sounds bad, but what I mean is she looked old at sixty and she looked old at seventy.  She was just ageing not so... gracefully.
She started having problems as we grew.  Harder to walk.  Harder to think.  Harder to remember.
For years... I had not seen her.
I heard stories of how racist she was.  How she had a foul mouth.  But every time I spoke to her, or listened to her, it was like honey.
Sweet, sincere.
My mum started telling me she was ill.  Every time she was mentioned I thought I was going to be told she had passed.
This went on for a few years.
She moved in with my grandma.  She was cared for.  But she slowly got worse.  See, when people lose their memory they can become easily frightened or confused.
She would get severely confused and that came with severe anger.
She was moved to a home.
I visited her.
I visited her five times.
The first time I remember seeing her with tears in my eyes.  She didn't say my name once.  I brought up my brother but she just nodded and smiled.  I knew she didn't know.
The second time we walked around.  She was calling me my brother's name.
The third time was short.  She was severely confused.  I barely got to tell her I loved her.
The fourth time she was quite tired.  She lay in bed while I read.
The fifth time, I walked in, knowing this would be the last time I visited.  I didn't want to feel heartbroken every time I left.  I didn't want to see her anymore.
I walked into the room and her eyes brightened as she exclaimed my name clearly, hugged me, and told me she loved me so much.  How much I had grown.  How beautiful I was.  She asked how my brother was, and we were able to speak.  I saw her drifting away, so I told her I loved her and we embraced.  Then I walked back to the car with my mum and as she drove I felt cold tears fall from my face in silence.
A month or so passed.
So had she.
I didn't cry.
I haven't cried yet.
Even writing it, I feel them in the back of my eyes.
I don't feel heartless-- I did at first.
But, maybe I am not crying because she is willing me not to.
Because we are still picking raspberries.
Because I'm still a five year old little girl, naive with what is to come and what has happened.
Because the snowflakes that fell in her eyes were not in fact snow, but ashes from the fires we had.
Because the snowflakes were just my imagination, just like many other day dreams have been.
And it is okay if you don't understand what I am talking about, because I do.
I still feel her soft skin.
I see her bright blue veins.
I see how spindly she is.
I see how loving she was.
I see red.
I see raspberries.

Their eyes were battling each other, the rage sent waves around the empty room,
with nothing in it except packed boxes.
He came home when she wasn't finished packing.
When she wasn't finished saying goodbye.
And he stared at her with anger flowing through his veins, "You've had enough time.  Get out.  Now." 
He flicked his white cuffed wrist to the elevator door, venom dripping from his mouth
like a savage dog.
And she stared at him with disdain, tears flowing freely as her mumbled words made her sound as worthless as she felt. "I'm not ready yet."
This time he began shouting, feeling his heart welting with the frustration that filled his heart
every day
for the past
few
weeks.
"I don't want to see you, Anna!  Get the fuck out, now!"  He stepped closer to her now, taking in the deep brown hair.  Instead of it being neatly pinned back, it was now wavy and full of frizz.  Her once full eyes were empty and heartless.  He felt heartless too.
She gripped the edge of one of the boxes, sputtering, "Please, I can't go yet.  How do you know--"
He gripped her arm, dragging her to the elevator door.  And with the press of the button, the elevator slowly drifted up to the suite.
She cried out, falling against him.  Feeling deflated. 
And he held this woman.
The woman who he felt in love with for the past seven years.
The woman who showed him the world.
Who showed him love.
True.
Love.
He held this woman, feeling her embrace one last time, before she would drift off like the ocean.  Being free.  Truly free.
She looked up at him, her hollow green eyes meeting his with heartbreak.
And he brushed his fingers down her face so gently,
she could've mistaken it for rain.
And then he tugged his finger against her lip, ever so slightly.
"But," her voice was hoarse, "How do you know when it's love?" 
His eyes widened, with reality.
What was love?
Was this terror of a relationship not real?
A facade?
Her pleading eyes bore into his.
But his anger still boiled.
Her rage was still inflamed.
As so when the elevator dinged, he moved Anna into the metal box.  And left before she could watch him as the doors shut.
And he poured himself a glass of whiskey.
And took it as a shot.
And as he curled up in bed
his face was burning hot
from the tears that stained his cheeks
and the pain from the weeks
he was now being torn
from what she said
about the confusion
how love felt dead
and when he woke
he had some gin
mumbling what she spoke
the chance of sleep was slim
each day carried out
little shut eye
many tears
one day
he couldn't try
so he took some pills
and lay his head
after downing some whiskey
his limbs like lead
and he wrote
I quote
"My dearest Anna,
love
is a fanatical word
because people have assumed
that it can sum up a mess
of emotions
but
do not use it in vain
do not
utter it
with uncertainty
I love you
and when I say love
I mean
you make my heart stop
when you look at me
even if you don't
it feels as though I'll vomit
and my shakiness is terrible
and won't stop for hours
even when
you're long
gone.
And I love you
because
when your name is said
my stomach
it flutters
but the problem is
I love you
to the point
where
it
physically
hurts
when I'm not around you
and when you see me
but don't speak to me
I'm getting torn a part inside
and I pray you don't see my corpse
lifeless
loveless
but
I need you to see this
because I was
angry
I still am
but it wasn't with you
it was with my pain capacity
I was broken
I am broken
and I
can't
be
fixed
because
I'll just crumble again
and Oh, Anna
dream well
live well
live free
of strain
and sadness
and anger
and restlessness
watch the ocean
I see it in your eyes
watch the ocean.
With more emotion than you could possibly comprehend,
yours,
but not yours,
Evan James Parker."

The throbbing in the shadows never ending and constant hold my eyes exposed to the stars the wonder of the abyss gentle and heart breaking in the most lovely way the breathless sighs that envelope my lungs dance within the roaring sea below and my stomach lurches and my heart is screeching and my mouth is sewn from words. the wind is cutting my face as it tugs me with fire wailing at me not to fly but I see the rocks' fins and I see their frozen teeth and I push away from the white speckled void and I don't feel the ice nor the shattering agony that pierces through my gut because my head was wrecked too long ago to feel anything else

-e.w