A Glimmer in Time
written by: Franciska Merrick
Irena folds herself in half in an attempt to clear the arch to my kitchen. Dark, tall, broad, robust, she’s the ultimate all-rounder. As she straightens, the room shrinks. The kitchen seems to tuck itself away much like my abdomen folds itself inwards at the anticipation of what’s coming. Today, she’s dim. Her skin is sallow, her eyes murky brown.
“It’s time,” she says.
I lower my mug to the counter, reluctantly follow Irena through the rift in the timeline of my life that opens before her feet. The red carpet to her day. Carefully, we step across the divide and enter what I can only assume to be the most desolate landscape to grace her career.
I think I know what is coming. An immense bout of surliness floods my mood. A particular scene from my past materialises. I can barely stand for the heaviness of what is playing out in front of me. Although it is surreal to witness it from afar, I lived it. I was that. I cringe at the unsightly grimace on my face. Inflamed with anger, my features contort to convey my displeasure. Insults flood from my mouth, a wave of belittlement flattening the man in front of me.
“I don’t want to see this,” I say to Irena. Her retort is a slight eyebrow raise. She returns her attention to the carnage ahead.
I watch in agony. The past is heavy.
“I look so angry,” I whisper to myself.
“You look hopeless.” Her sleeves flourish and undulate as she dismisses my remark with a wave of her hand. Irena rotates her massive circumference and aims her gaze directly at me.
“You understand why we are here. You need to see. You need to have a good, hard look at yourself. I spoke to Luna. Wherever it is that you will settle eventually is not yet clear. Come, Look.” She’s already refocused on the fight.
I remember it like it was yesterday. So much disappointment. I didn’t know how to function, to breathe, to be. Everyone around me just kept going like nothing was wrong. As if my entire life didn’t fall apart. Nothing drains hope out of your heart quicker than miscarriage. Who is to blame when your body rejects life? I am sure I was to blame, unquestionably.
“I am sorry,” I whisper to my husband.
Irena graces me with solemn acknowledgement. She seems satisfied for now. The scene dissolves as quickly as my patience with bad drivers on a Monday morning. One by one, the circumstances that led to the absolute deterioration of my life montage past my eyes. Fighting, crying, fighting, sleeping, starving, fighting, silence. I see Ben crying, too. Hovering. Waiting. Whiplashed, I witnessed my own slow descent into despondency. I’m sinking into that familiar void that wrenches your chest forward, yanking the very essence of your personality out from your chest. The desolation is blinding. Barrenness swallows what was left of my willingness to live. Finally, the show is over. Then, I stare at Ben’s back as he leaves through the front door. Heavy-laden by luggage and misery, he closes the door with the finality of a nail in a coffin. He backs his car out of the driveway, and speeds away for one last time, driving past the mailbox bearing his last name. I probably have to change that to my maiden name now. Light seeps away, the curtain lowering on the exquisite conclusion of my past.
I turn to find Irena staring at me. Her skin is ebony, her clothes lackluster. But not her eyes. Irena has retained a glimmer of hope, yet. Apologies will do that, I think.
Sitting on the couch, I rerun Irena’s haunting display of my myriad failures in my head. It’s been days since she left me with little fanfare. She merely graced me with her flourish of a wave as she walked away, dissolving into the wall. I feel lighter than I have in months. I know now that he was hurting too, and I was adding to his suffering. Drowning, I pulled him under, too. I need to make it right. Whatever he decides, I will accept. I have to phone Ben, but not just yet. I smell. There’s a knock at the door. My pulse speeds up. Ben’s been gone for a week. Could it be him? I jump up, straighten my clothes, smooth my unbrushed hair. I’m somewhat hopeful. I open the door in a manner that I try to appear casual.
It’s not Ben. It’s the opposite of Ben. The man polluting my front porch is plain, boring, and beige. The monotone off-white shirt seamlessly blends into a pair of same-hued pants, ending at feet covered in beige socks and sandals, also beige. Judging by his fashion, I’m guessing this is a glimmer of my present – boring and hopeless.
“Hey, I’m Guy. May I please come in?” He is already pushing past me into the hallway. He takes a judgy scenic stroll through all the rooms in my house. Hum’s and hah’s generously sprinkled about.
“I was going to tidy that,” I say as he absorbs the chaos of the living room, “and I was going to eat that.” He stares at the scattered leftover boxes dubiously.
Gently, he places his hands on my shoulders, turns me around until I’m facing the big mirror on the opposite wall. I see a hollow face and an unkempt person staring back at me.
I get the message. I bend down to start clearing the floor of shoes and trash. Guy starts by collecting all the dirty dishes. Slowly, inch by inch, we clear the clutter and junk. As the room clears, so does my heart. The present seems lighter.
I’m startled from my nap. The cleaning took it out of me. Guy must have made like a guy and left while I was sleeping. It takes a few to realise what woke me. I’m not alone.
“I’m Luna,” she grabs me and pulls me along into her perspective of the future, “come! You have to see this.”
I’m not too eager to see what the future holds. I dig in my heels and sit back. I try to keep her from risking the exposure. She slows and allows me to approach at my own pace. Giddy with excitement, she jumps up and down, making her blonde curls vibrate and pulse. Only now am I fully awake to realise she is shimmering. Light assaults my senses. Hope beats out soft flutters in my chest. Dare I hope?
The room is dim. Ambient light fills the corner above a padded chair. The romantic tinkle of a lullaby fans out from the mobile above the cot. Ben looks down at the sleeping form of a beautiful baby. He is glowing, and so is Luna. I run through the house, Luna follows me, laughing. I seek out our mailbox outside, lit up is Ben’s last name – still there. Apart from the random baby blanket and empty bottle, the house is clean and smells good, familiar. The future is bright, glowing with potential. Luna disappears, happy.
I grab my phone and call Ben.
- A Glimmer in Time - July 16, 2026
- Shut In - April 11, 2026
