“Where the fuck is it?!” Her hysterics are piercing, shrew, bordering on un-earthly as the throw pillows fly off our bed, with no regard for whatever else may lie in their path.
“Relax!” I shout, knowing the desired result will NOT come of me shouting this word. Her feverish eyes lock with mine as her body swings violently around to face me. Her face almost appears swollen, shades of pink and red, as she perspires. Her rage sinks back giving way to surmounting bitter tears. She falls to sit on the bed, cradling her face in her hands as her blonde hair drips below.
I walk over, crouching down as I rub her knees.
“We will find it,” I assure quietly, “and even if we don’t,” a sob bursts within her hands, “that’s not your mother. I mean… it is, I know. But those ashes are not the sole source of your childhood, or any of the memories you have with her.”
“I know,” her voice waivers, sounding as if it were about to break, “I just can’t believe I lost it. I wear that necklace everyday. I just.. how? Where can it be?” Her breathing starts to slow, regaining its normalcy. “We have to go.”
Our favorite friends, Bernie & Fred, had invited a handful of us over for a “class act” dinner party. They’d recently re-decorated their dining room, and were eager to display their beautiful new decor to us all.
“Babe,” I reach up to wrap my arms around her, hugging and pulling her up, “I love you so much. If we can’t find it, everything will still be okay. We can look tomorrow morning, I’m sure it’s going to be somewhere.” Her inhales sharply, and releases slowly, “I’ll go start the car, why don’t you take a minute, ok?” She nods, sniffling, small tears still lining her lower lids.
After grabbing my wool jacket, I step out the front door, greeted by the frosty presence of my breath before me. Arms wrapped around myself tightly, I timidly descend the front steps, and sit down in the drivers seat. Glancing up at the door, I turn the key, and sit back. She’ll be down in a minute. Composure for the public is Ellen’s forte.
I shove my hand in my front pocket, watching the door still. I pull out the familiar copper necklace, adorned with a travel-size urn. I glance up at the door again, as I quickly unscrew the top. I lick my pinky quickly, the rush building inside me about to burst through my chest. Any moment. I stick my pinky, the only finger able to fit inside I’ve come to realize, and gather a small bit of ash on the tip of my damp finger. I smile at the glorious sight, and quickly suck it all off. The dusty, dry sensation sense a savory chill down my back.
Mmm.
Writing Space. 