Return to Dust

Originally I had written this for a short, short story contest (see rules here: http://www.npr.org/2012/03/10/148251671/three-minute-fiction-round-8-she-closed-the-book&sc=fb&cc=fp) but i miss read the deadline, by March 25, they did not mean March 29.  So, I am sharing it here instead.  I hope you enjoy.

Return to Dust

By Kevin Johnson

            She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally decided to walk through the door.  Outside the wind had picked up, leaves blown across the dry lawn, bare branches twisted, flaying and dust swirling, ever present, filling space and time with grit.  Nothing was ever clean, dirt gathered beneath her fingernails and sifted through the course fabric of her cloths, the curtains and a box that protected the remnants of a life before this one; his photo in black and white to match the rented suit: sitting on the hood of an old car he had borrowed from a neighbor, her legs crossed in front of her, both smiling at the prospect of whatever lay before them and frightened, too, expectancy and pressure and the desire building up and focusing in on their bodies, just under the delicate feel of the short formal dress, the two of them budding and naïve, excited and afraid.  That photograph is simple in her memory as the newness of “she” was before reality – delusion, disappointment, life – chased away youth. 

 A worn and tarnished silver necklace with a small opal that caught the light and glimmered like a star; two ticket stubs and a little cash she would never spend, all covered in the dust that did not stop blowing with the wind or without it, always moving and sifting into places into which she could not believe dust could find.

 She stood at the door a long time, leaning against her cane, the final remnant of the man in the photo, never again able to smile like he had that night, on their way…she smoothed out her shirt, gnarled hand resting gently on her stomach, the traces who had made it and who hadn’t still lingered but there were no longer any tears for the dead or the living.   She was no longer sure upon which threshold she stood.

 With effort she stepped through the door and walked onto the porch, worn white oak creaking beneath her fragile frame, tentative steps, the tap of her cane, dust stirring, down the steps, onto the lawn, where she felt stronger, had always felt stronger on the ground and out, away from the business of living. 

 In the company of the walnut cane she walked through the yard and towards the hill that blocked out the ocean and the evening sun.

Had she been prone to sentiment it would have been a path of memories, faces staring from the ground, the blood of her body soaked into the soil and toil of a life they had built from ruin and ash into a comfort from which they could not escape, passion flaming into companionship and then into silence as he slipped away into the sea. 

She had watched from the top of the hill unable to speak or cry for help or rush to the edge with the intentions of salvation.  She was frozen in silence and later in grief and now she walked up the hill, a tree planted in his honor, its bare branches covered in dust, the grass brown beneath its gaze, how long had it been since she had stood beneath his cover and cried?

There were no longer any tears left.

She new that they wouldn’t understand, the faces that remained, they never did.

She sat against the rough bark allowed herself to finally fall asleep.