The Curator Sleeps
Four days left in my own mind; I asked the curator to please be kind but he fell asleep
and ushered me on. So I danced with lilacs and waited for their springtime bloom before
leaving on a dingy for an ocean cave. A seagull was sweet enough to show me the
way, though suggested I take a lobster trap back; that route would be quicker it said.
When I finally stopped the row and sunk into the entryway, I found I’d drowned. I
hoped to get CPR from a mermaid, but they don’t exist in the New England waters. I
waited until I was bloated, then my body broke apart and swam away to find its master.
If it hadn’t been for the draggers and their big nets I might never have gotten back
together. Illusive figures worked the boat deck: orange slickers hung onto faceless bodies.
But they were decent enough folk to let me earn my keep back to shore. Bad luck,
though, came from the superstitions of the sea. The motor stalled and then it fried and
scorched with heat and longed for fire. Only brazen wind was there to save us and I,
along with the gentle crew, threw up my shirt and sailed. I braced my arms against the
passionate gale and shouted the fury of defiance, a cry laced with exaltation. Dragged
across protruding rocks, my skin was torn and the salt lapped the wound in courtesy. I
lost those faceless travelers somewhere past; when I came upon the woods of a foreign
land I was alone. With no guide I scavenged blind and curious and tasted berries and
moss until I felt the growth within me. Twigs broke through fingertips and ruffled my
hair. Bark, with the miniscule cuts of blades, sliced all pores so it might breathe the
air. I crusted over, condemned to stand ground among the cheerful pines. Paralysis.
Living. It was a good life until the lumberyard restocked; every tree does their part
and I fell without a cry. A tree sees a great ordeal; I thanked it for hosting me. Then I
ran to the shore at the edge of the earth and leapt from the cliff. I fell through the sky,
that I might surface once more from the love of a coma. The curator held open a door
of fantastic light and I sat up wiping the dirt from my face.
-Georgie Schaefer