And Then I Was
“Wait a minute, I wasn’t done.” “You’re done,” he said. Well, he didn’t say it. But he moved it. The tone of the words he didn’t say echoed like a cowbell on a neck between two mountainsides. Back and forth and back and forth until one forth and no more back. And, “You’re done.” But silent. A slippery tear fell down. But tears never roll in a straight line. They zigzag from your heart to your eyes and echo like a horn blown inside a cave. He didn’t say it but he showed it. And his movement was stillness. Like a door closing before you reach it. “Wait for me, I want to sit down.” “You’re too slow,” he said. Well, he didn’t say it. But he stood it. Stood over it like a calculation he could see from above. The mechanics of his breathing echoed like the ticking of a clock dropped inside a hollowed pot. Up and down and up and down my heart filled up and one more down and down. And, “Go faster.” But slow. An emptying of all that was, scattered on the ground. The pieces drifted like leaves between trees. “Wait a minute, I wasn’t done.” “You’re done,” he said. And I was. —Iris Lennox