It’s my birthday. Well actually I slept through it, she said. I was born in the middle of the night. I tried to relive it in my mind, but who remembers their birth anyways? That’s what I want to know.
Dark brown ringlets cascade from a haphazard pony tail stacked atop her head. She uses the towel to dry her feet, and then lets it drape loosely beneath two teacup breasts.
I try to picture her coming into the world; this woman in her mid-forties once a baby. And then I picture myself: the darkness before the first breath of air and light. The rush of awareness, the instinct to push. The newness of understanding. The determination to be a part of all this out here.
Last night, my legs were pendulums. I let them swing from the bar stool. Thinking, thinking. Thinking. When did I start thinking about death? Must have been a long time ago. A day rarely goes by now without that hard realization of the temporariness of everything. All the people I love.
In the shower room at the sauna, I’m alone for an instant. The warm water soothes my skin, pouring down, melting over the contours, removing the layers of thought until it is just me, at home in a body, barefooted on the slate tile. Suddenly surrounded by three women. Large women. Ovals and folds, spherical shapes draping over organs. A fading tattoo of a red heart on her left buttock with the words “Fag Hag”.
I feel comforted by these large bodies; their presence make me feel like I am allowed to take up space. I think, how beautiful.
The tile is cool beneath my toes, and it is a relief to not have to talk to anyone. I can just be, water pouring overhead, soft voices drifting in and out of earshot. The women nearby gossip amongst themselves, occasionally laughing at one another’s wit. The earthy smell of Palo Santo wood drifts into the room and I breathe it in deeply.
As I dry off in the dressing room, I think about the last time I wrote a long story; it was about a woman who lost someone to suicide. I haven’t been able to go back to the story since my childhood friend died this year. The closest I came to it was in writing group when I imagined the world from the perspective of a cobweb, which then became a speck of golden dust, a product of some great force that eventually returned to the earth beneath wooden floorboards; home.
Meanwhile, an elderly woman with a badly hunched back readies herself to walk to the sauna. She leans on a walker and takes baby steps, shuffling one foot after the other out of the dressing room. Her arced spine is the shape of a rainbow, leaving her head dangling beneath her chest. Sallow skin, aged and loosened by time tenses, then carries her weight gradually forward. It looks like she’s in pain, and I feel an aching sadness in my body as if her bones were my own.
I dress and head back out into the cold night. A tan pitbull eyes me from behind the legs of its owner. Zipping up my jacket, I look up – a thumbnail of moon smiles across the wide shoulders of an illuminated sky. Light fans out around it, then fades into dark indigo clouds.
I put my key in the ignition, and flick on the headlights. A pause. I breathe out. I stop wrestling. There’s just this moment. In it, everything feels both wrong and right. I’m so grateful, and so sorry, and so lost for why.
I get to be here, yet she’s taken her own life.