| Somewhere an Icicle Breaks |
| By Sean Halstead |
No job to get up for, the phone ringing. It’s probably Mom to wish me happy birthday.
Muriel, don’t you be like your father, she said, after my father resigned from his job, his head
always in the clouds, so impractical.
That was the day before he left us, on his twenty-ninth. Early the following morning I found a
bone-white feather in the garage where he pretended to be a sculptor, the side door wide
open. A breeze stirring my hair whispered the answers to some questions. I bit my lower lip as
I fanned the feather on my palm. Mom never knew about it.
He gave me an angel figurine for each birthday. All seven look at me, some with wings half-
furled, from the shelf above my desk. They all look content but serious and mysterious.
The feeling on my shoulder blades I can only compare to teething, a permeating blunt ache.
Yet it’s not an altogether unpleasant sensation, a bit itchy.
Should’ve seen the lay-off coming. To hope can be foolish, I’m learning. It’s a good thing
Steve and I never had a child. He would have made an awful father. He was certainly a
wretched husband. People often become enamored with someone who recognizes a chunk of
their essence. So major in Psychology, if that’s what you really want, he said, his gaze on my
econ textbooks. It took me too long to realize I never really knew the man beneath the satin
surface. After that last fight, the quiet rustling leaves in the park told me what was wrong. I
listened. His lover painfully proved my inadequacy as a woman. After all was dealt with, I
covered my face with my hands. My cuffs became soaked with, up until then, sealed rage.
This itch. I undress and look in the bathroom mirror. Maybe I should see my doctor, though I
feel excellent -- strong, suffused with light and knowing. There are simultaneous images -- a
shaky age-spotted hand opens a photo album, knitted brow above blood-shot eyes, blanched
and thick fingers wrapped around a slender and brown neck, a chubby child swipes a sippy
cup.
Muriel, don’t you be like your father, she said, after my father resigned from his job, his head
always in the clouds, so impractical.
That was the day before he left us, on his twenty-ninth. Early the following morning I found a
bone-white feather in the garage where he pretended to be a sculptor, the side door wide
open. A breeze stirring my hair whispered the answers to some questions. I bit my lower lip as
I fanned the feather on my palm. Mom never knew about it.
He gave me an angel figurine for each birthday. All seven look at me, some with wings half-
furled, from the shelf above my desk. They all look content but serious and mysterious.
The feeling on my shoulder blades I can only compare to teething, a permeating blunt ache.
Yet it’s not an altogether unpleasant sensation, a bit itchy.
Should’ve seen the lay-off coming. To hope can be foolish, I’m learning. It’s a good thing
Steve and I never had a child. He would have made an awful father. He was certainly a
wretched husband. People often become enamored with someone who recognizes a chunk of
their essence. So major in Psychology, if that’s what you really want, he said, his gaze on my
econ textbooks. It took me too long to realize I never really knew the man beneath the satin
surface. After that last fight, the quiet rustling leaves in the park told me what was wrong. I
listened. His lover painfully proved my inadequacy as a woman. After all was dealt with, I
covered my face with my hands. My cuffs became soaked with, up until then, sealed rage.
This itch. I undress and look in the bathroom mirror. Maybe I should see my doctor, though I
feel excellent -- strong, suffused with light and knowing. There are simultaneous images -- a
shaky age-spotted hand opens a photo album, knitted brow above blood-shot eyes, blanched
and thick fingers wrapped around a slender and brown neck, a chubby child swipes a sippy
cup.
Not even hungry, though I should be. God, how long
ago was my last meal? Just as well, it’s only a matter
of weeks before I run out of funds. The figurines are
supposed to be collector’s items. It may not come to
that – I have a feeling someone will need me soon.
It’s pretty out, can’t feel the chill, my breath visible.
Somewhere an icicle breaks -- the sound from it as
though through loudspeakers. Crunch. Snap.
The past, present, and future become fluid. I sense
varying shades of pain, envy, despair, anger, shame,
scorn, surprise, remorse. My father’s image flashes
– helping someone translate indefinable beauty into
a painting.
I flap them, a feather falls. They’re as light as my
conscience. They lift me out of the bedroom, above
the complex, trees, cars, men in hardhats digging a
hole, school children, led by a young man in
dreadlocks, holding hands as they cross the street --
some squint as they look up at the sun.
Mom is stooped in her bedroom looking at old
pictures, her old hand turning a quivering stiff page.
Let it out, all of it. You’ve tried to be strong for too
long now. After I touch her chest, her tears drip on
the semi-glossy memories. It’s a long path but you
won’t be alone.
As I leave the two-story home, my Guide steers me,
the horizon's transparent. It will never matter again
whether the moon or sun is above.
ago was my last meal? Just as well, it’s only a matter
of weeks before I run out of funds. The figurines are
supposed to be collector’s items. It may not come to
that – I have a feeling someone will need me soon.
It’s pretty out, can’t feel the chill, my breath visible.
Somewhere an icicle breaks -- the sound from it as
though through loudspeakers. Crunch. Snap.
The past, present, and future become fluid. I sense
varying shades of pain, envy, despair, anger, shame,
scorn, surprise, remorse. My father’s image flashes
– helping someone translate indefinable beauty into
a painting.
I flap them, a feather falls. They’re as light as my
conscience. They lift me out of the bedroom, above
the complex, trees, cars, men in hardhats digging a
hole, school children, led by a young man in
dreadlocks, holding hands as they cross the street --
some squint as they look up at the sun.
Mom is stooped in her bedroom looking at old
pictures, her old hand turning a quivering stiff page.
Let it out, all of it. You’ve tried to be strong for too
long now. After I touch her chest, her tears drip on
the semi-glossy memories. It’s a long path but you
won’t be alone.
As I leave the two-story home, my Guide steers me,
the horizon's transparent. It will never matter again
whether the moon or sun is above.
