Full Circle 2008
Angela Nansera
All the seasons in one day.
Snug beneath a warm duvet, my glassy eyes open in dread. Today at three, they bury Jake. Commit his cold body to dark hard soil. I wasn't ready, never said goodbye. None of us did. How well do you know anybody, especially one who takes their own life? At work we smile and pass pleasantries along white-walled stairwells and Jake, the best from I.T. always got things fixed. When PCs crashed and deadlines loomed, we held clasped hair in clenched fists all expletives expressed. And Jake? His deadline? That broke his neck; shut him down, control, alt, delete.
'Cool,' he'd say to our gratitude when again he saved our lives. I still see him, float silently around the office, detached as cables attach, hard drives reboot, failed printers fixed. If he helped me, why couldn't I him?
News of his sudden death spread faster than a virus. This young man so kind, undemanding, so polite was gone. Our private silent thoughts fell like snow on distant hills untouched by human feet and his suicide stretched to the far peaked ice caps. For me, he completed the crossing of a many felt line.
I think of his mother and shiver. My son, Sam, now 5, leaps to mind and I hold my heart in pain. How does it feel to lay to rest the seed your grew, watch and flower, change like days, then melt away?
I ring John. Barely known, he seems good in a crisis. Has a rescue-type persona oozing from the pores of his portly sweaty frame. A paramedic, so I assume him well able to deal with wailing strangers. I ask him round and he agrees. Instead of showing my grief publicly at the funeral, I decide to stay home, breaking my intermittent teary solitude with calls to members of my family.
In the past, I have been told I'm a man hater.
Untrue.
I don't hate men.
Only liars.
My previous seasons fielding romance never seemed to produce a fruitful yield. I wasn't really ready for harvest, my fruit looked sweet, but still needed to ripen at room temperature.
John arrived, warmed up to say, "I'm not looking for a relationship right now," before his coffee went cold.
'Funny," I say, "The wink at Womad said you were." I taste sour grapes.
His visit announces he is still actively married and my front door slams to the same wind that makes my crimson leaves fall. Now I'm alone in my dim narrow hallway, my brittle branches bear.
Tamara rings and locates her position on the Feeder Rd. "You've got a car?" she says, a statement more a question. I nod.
Thank Christ. I've rung everyone else." Why? I think Carbon footprint? 'I'm trying to catch this gull with a broken wing."
A roaring transit passes. What can I say? I was still blown away by autumn. She fills my gap. "Rang the RSPCA. Left 2 messages."
More silence. Sun shines sulphur stains through unwashed kitchen panes and heats my damp cheeks.
Can't leave him," she says. "Couldn't. He's in my path."
My next gap is smaller. "Need me to come out?
"You're such a love," she says. "I'm with River in the Seat garage."
Which is where exactly? By the time I remember, she orders me to bring a box, a capture sheet and the line goes dead.
Tamara and River are parked despondently beside a polished 4 by 4 its price dropped by a grand. Relinquishing my container from Amazon and Mothercare baby blanket, I see a frantic bird in the waning heat scarper from a blue streaked blonde. As he runs, his damaged wing bends upwards like an open step ladder. He is also way too large to fit my brown rescue box.
With a dye stained tongue, River pushes gum against a wobbly tooth. He asks where my son is.
"On holiday with his dad," I say, watching the gull win every race against his mother. There's a new finish line behind the grassy knoll of an industrial plant.
The RSPCA arrive and we squint out the sizzling sun shimmering on top of the white van. The man in a uniform holds the bird upside down like a bat and places him in a cage.
At their offices, my gurgling stomach sends messages to my brain. I have not eaten for over eight hours. The fate of the bird, injuries too severe is death.
"I never said goodbye," said Helena.
I looked at her. "None of us did," I say.
Back home, I watch The Sopranos, luke-warm pesto on hot penne resting on fused knees. The long suffering Carmela is married to Tony Soprano, the New Jersey, Italian-American mob boss. Invited for the first time, she sits awkwardly across from her husband's therapist.
Doctor Jennifer Melfi breaks the silence to address Carmeia. "Tony's anxiety attacks," she says, How do they make you feel?"
"Concerned, of course. Helpless a little frustrated, maybe."
"With your inability to help him?" the doctor says.
"No. To tell you the truth with your inability to help him." Then I see you really only help some, but never all.
And like the curled heads of snowdrops that break a silver frost, or the heady hum of hyacinth from bluish blooming hues, I feel small hope.
Spring.
