Imago Mater

One, two, thirty thousand feet

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Dear Bolu,

The pay is peanuts, but Maman thinks I should accept the offer. I like peanuts, but the pay, not so much. “It gets your foot in the door”,  she argues, and I’m inclined to agree. It gets my foot in the door and the door is slammed hard against it. I turn up at work with a limp so nobody has the good humour to tell me to break a leg. Whose leg are we expected to break when a well-wisher bids us good luck with that particular turn of phrase—break a leg? Is it ours or another’s? And does it matter how the leg is broken? Is using a 2 by 4 piece of plywood more commendable than a hammer? Behind the counter, the hours crawl and creep as customers hand over their cash deposits. I wade through the day with excess reserves of drudgery, despondency, and dejection. There's no fulfilment here save that of the capitalist's manifesto. The day is over when night draws nigh and no sooner. Never sooner. But it's fine as long as I have a foot in the door. In five years or so, I'd have my second foot in, and in fifteen more years, my whole body. I say my goodbyes and haul myself home, worn by the pilgrim's burden. In the back of the bus, I sit on hard wood and munch on roast corn. My prospects are bleak as if all of my living is in the shadows of Mordor, but my chin is up because the corn is warm and sweet and golden brown.

Out of the corner of my eye, my niece dances. She's the spitting image of her mother, from her pitch-black hair to her two archless left feet. She wears a grey shirt with a print of Edward Elric in front, my gift to her. She's lively and up and about. Where do kids find so much energy? How are they full of life? Oh, I know. Once I was like that—no, twice. First, when I was her age. Second, when I'd call you by my name in a room full of people, in the rhythmic lines of a poem, in the body of a scented letter, under a sky full of stars, and in my most blissful dreams. To be full of life requires a significant effort that drains me of the little life I have. Watching my niece dance, however, does enough to fill it back up.

The casket kisses the ground. I take a deep breath and cast my gaze upon the shell that is the final destination of all our bodies. Am I close to death or is 6ft under not so deep after all, I wonder. There's a wail in the crowd, and one more, until there are several. It hurts to see a beloved go. Whoever asked death of its sting must not have known its sting. The sand and silt are poured back in, and I look down for a sign. There's no tremor or quake or shifting of the ground. It's as if the earth couldn't care less about embracing the most wonderful soul in her arms. I look to the sky for something—anything. A ray of sunlight; an oddly shaped cloud that I can make some sense of; rain; a thunderclap; lightning; a gentle breeze; a gush of wind; a rainbow; anything but everyday weather; anything but everydayness. I look for anything that says the departed isn't just one of many. I look in vain. Shades hide the tears in my eyes as we say grace. Still. Lifeless. Gone. Whoever said what is dead may never die must not have seen death in their bed.

Outside the window are vistas, rivers, lights, and little people. I’m 16,000ft in the air and still rising. To my right, an empty seat sits between myself and a middle-aged woman. She wears an auburn wig and a flowery dress to match. I can’t help but wonder what you’d look like in it. To catch flights with the woman I’ve caught feelings for is all I’ve wanted to do, and this seat beside me seems a waste of memory. Should we ever fly, when the plane lands we'd share a cab with classic car speakers. You'd pick a song, and I'd pick Dead Sea. At the port, we'd get into a ship. We’d fly our favourite colours, and yo-ho, and heave-ho. I'd be the captain and you'd be my first mate; my black pearl. In streams and shallow waters, we'd get in a boat. We'd row and row merrily, watching the otter and platypus go about their business. And our lives would be but a dream.

Dark clouds are all I see 30,000ft above sea level. The turbulence is discomforting and we circle around for a good while. Although the pilot's message of reassurance is calming, you can sense the nerves inside the pressurized cabin. The lady with the auburn wig takes a rosary out of her purse and prays. I can't hear her, but I hope for my sake that her prayers are heard and answered—we are, after all, closer to heaven than usual. If her prayers aren't answered, well, this won't be a bad way and time to go. I certainly won't miss the foot in the door. I'd miss my niece and be buried in an empty casket. Never again would I get to say how besotted I am with you. And never again would I feel the sway of your hips or taste the nicotine on your lips, dear friend.

Fin.

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Write you soon, merci!

- Wolemercy