They walk along the waterfront, the small girl and her mother, the sluggish muddy churn of the water directly below and to their right as they make their way. It is a gorgeous sunny day despite the chill, and the small girl walks ahead on unarched feet, her chubby toddler fingers running over the metal railings one by one as she steps. There is a rhythm to the railings, and she plays her fingers over them, enjoying the music.
Bump bump bump bump bump bump smoooooth bump bump bump bump bump bump smoooooth . . . one smooth for each larger round support spaced amidst the narrower squared verticals.
Bump bump bump bump bump bump smoooooth . . .
She runs and then slows to feel the beat of the railing adjust to match her pace.
The sun is shining and it glints against the muscled darkness below, and she plays the music of the just-held-backness of this wall that is not a wall.
Bump bump bump bump bump bump smoooooth . . .
She laughs as a seagull screams and flies from her approach.
Bump bump bump bump bump bump smoooooth . . .
A boat glides silent by, a numbered orange triangle flapping like a sheet above its curves of glossy wood. She stares through the railings at the sailboat, her round cheeks each pressed against the bump of a squared slender railing. The boat gets small, and the small girl moves along as she considers its shrinking, happy that she, at least, stays the same size as she moves farther away from where she used to be.
She moves along, aware of the twin stripes of cold the metal railings left stamped along her face.
Her fingers play.
Bump bump bump bump bump bump smoooooth . . .
She smells dead fish.
Bump bump bump bump bump bump smoooooth . . .
The water looks like chocolate syrup, thick and stirred.
Bump bump bump bump smoooooth . . .
She notices the change in rhythm immediately and slows to investigate.
Bump . . . bump . . . bump . . . bump . . . smoooooth . . .
Different.
She glances back at her mother, who is far behind. The small girl considers for a moment, uncertain, unsure how to gauge the change. She walks carefully along the next section, playing the song of the railings with her fingertips . . .
Bump . . . bump . . . bump . . . bump . . . smoooooth . . .
Different.
She steps to the railing and leans her face forward . . . waiting for the moment when the metal railings press against her cheeks as they did before. There is no press of cold at all; instead, her face passes through the gap untouched.
Different.
She grabs the railings on either side of her face and leans as far forward as she can through the space to see when the railing will stop her fall into the water below. It grabs at her shoulders, but if she were to turn her shoulders slightly, all that would stop her fall would be her grasp on the metal parallels.
Different.
Perhaps she got smaller after all, just like the boat. She turns and walks back the way she came until the railings play the first song again.
Bump bump bump bump bump bump smoooooth . . .
She presses her face, the two metal stripes of cold fitting against her cheeks just as they did before.
She walks along again, the water to her right, until the song changes . . .
Bump . . . bump . . . bump . . . bump . . . smoooooth . . .
She holds tightly, and she leans forward and out and away, through the railings, the muddy water churning thickly below.
Different.
She wishes she had words. She wants to share this with her mother. Her mother should know of the possibility.
She takes a single step back from the railings and waits for her mother’s approach. When her mother is perhaps fifteen feet away, she steps once more forward and puts her head through the space.
She hears her mother’s voice, a strangled whisper on the wind, “Come away.”
Still tilted through the railings and over the water, the small girl turns her head to stare at her mother, her enormous blue eyes shining in unspoken question . . . Do you see?
Her mother whispers again and sinks to the pavement, her arms outstretched, “I see, baby. I see. Come away.”
The small girl tightens her grip and plants her feet, and she leans forward and out and away, never breaking eye-contact with her mother . . . Do you see?
Do you see?
She wants her mother to see the choice on offer.
The edge and end of the world.
Come away.
I will play you a song . . . the music of the spaces through which one might slip.
I know the feeling of writing and thinking there is more, but when on paper it fits in a smaller place than it takes up in my head.
That’s not it exactly . . .
I still have the more.
I wrote the more.
I just decided this was all I was inclined to share, and that this story stands alone to say what I intended to say.
(deleted that tag, as I see it might be misleading)
Kris
I understand that feeling also. Btw, I like the texture of this piece too.
Thanks, you.
That is so very, very keen.
And beautiful.
What a precocious child too.
Love. Again.
The child is precocious, but as she was very small and not yet with words at the time of this story?
The story is partly her mother’s.
Her mother’s story . . . fit into the spaces left empty by wordlessness and railings and omission.
Yes.
For me the ‘safety’ changes with the ‘railings’ as it often does.
So well done. I love all of the unfilled space (and between railings). It adds so much
“The edge and end of the world.” Verklempt over here.
It is always intriguing to me that the pieces that speak most deeply of ME are the pieces that garner the least response and least seeming understanding.
I leave spaces, yes.
But I do not intentionally obfuscate.
The edge and end of the world . . .
Yes.
By which I meant to say “Thank you” to you, Robin.
Thank you.