By Ben Greenman / @2019
From forthcoming collection of stories, as yet untitled
I don’t know a single religious song. Do you? And yet, as I slept, the sound of the wind coming through the window was like the breath of a god, or a belief system, or a universal consciousness. I cannot be specific about what the sound was like, but it was proof of something far larger than me, far larger than any of us, than all of us put together. I am not making too much of it. I sensed it even through the wall of sleep. Then I was awake. The morning light was blue and cold. I was alone in a sparely decorated room. Was it a cell perhaps? I could hear someone speaking or maybe singing. The noise was so faint that I questioned myself. Had I heard it at all? I had to get out of the cell. The door led to a hallway, then a sitting room. I went tearing through the house without any thought of where I was going. A woman stopped me crying. That is imprecise. I was not crying and so could not be stopped. She was crying. She had a blanket underneath her arm. She had a story about everyone who had ever stayed in the house. Except me, that is. She had no story about me. We were right in the middle of a story, she and I, one that had started at the other end of the hallway, and yet she had no story about me. I started to tell her that I felt wronged, neglected, misused, betrayed, but as the words piled up they seemed to be doing too much work. They risked overwhelming the moment. Instead, I just reached out and touched the blanket, and a hot shock went through me, a reminder of my connection to the woman who now stood in front of me. Maybe this was the story. There was wincing in the wake of the shock. She winced. I was wincing too. It could not be stopped. I turned away from her. I meant not just to turn but to turn and go, but a framed photograph on the wall stopped me. The woman in the photograph was sad and young, with deep black eyes, eyes that might have, outside of the confines of the photograph, been a different color, but the photograph was black and white, pitilessly so, and that determined the eyes. The young woman in the photograph carried a book, the contents of which only she could see. Was it a hymnal perhaps? The woman with the book looked just like the woman with the blanket. It was her mother. That is imprecise. Blanket was daughter of book. The photograph was framed under glass. The photograph was captive. I put my fingers on the glass. The woman in the photograph stirred in her deep black eyes. She sensed me even through the wall of glass. I am not making too much of it. My awareness of her awareness was far larger than both of us. It was, as a poet once wrote, “like the breathing of a deity, or the difference between what is hoped and what is known.” That poet wrote the words on paper and then sang them. I don't know a single song that's not religious. The woman with the blanket had disconnected from me the moment that I had turned. Our story was over. She and her blanket had moved on. She was heading down the hall, maybe to the cell. I did not see her go but I felt it. She moved quickly enough that the air between us folded. I did not see her because I was looking away from her, at the deep black eyes of her mother. I braced for another shock and put my fingers through the glass.
I don’t know a single religious song. Do you? And yet, as I slept, the sound of the wind coming through the window was like the breath of a god, or a belief system, or a universal consciousness. I cannot be specific about what the sound was like, but it was proof of something far larger than me, far larger than any of us, than all of us put together. I am not making too much of it. I sensed it even through the wall of sleep. Then I was awake. The morning light was blue and cold. I was alone in a sparely decorated room. Was it a cell perhaps? I could hear someone speaking or maybe singing. The noise was so faint that I questioned myself. Had I heard it at all? I had to get out of the cell. The door led to a hallway, then a sitting room. I went tearing through the house without any thought of where I was going. A woman stopped me crying. That is imprecise. I was not crying and so could not be stopped. She was crying. She had a blanket underneath her arm. She had a story about everyone who had ever stayed in the house. Except me, that is. She had no story about me. We were right in the middle of a story, she and I, one that had started at the other end of the hallway, and yet she had no story about me. I started to tell her that I felt wronged, neglected, misused, betrayed, but as the words piled up they seemed to be doing too much work. They risked overwhelming the moment. Instead, I just reached out and touched the blanket, and a hot shock went through me, a reminder of my connection to the woman who now stood in front of me. Maybe this was the story. There was wincing in the wake of the shock. She winced. I was wincing too. It could not be stopped. I turned away from her. I meant not just to turn but to turn and go, but a framed photograph on the wall stopped me. The woman in the photograph was sad and young, with deep black eyes, eyes that might have, outside of the confines of the photograph, been a different color, but the photograph was black and white, pitilessly so, and that determined the eyes. The young woman in the photograph carried a book, the contents of which only she could see. Was it a hymnal perhaps? The woman with the book looked just like the woman with the blanket. It was her mother. That is imprecise. Blanket was daughter of book. The photograph was framed under glass. The photograph was captive. I put my fingers on the glass. The woman in the photograph stirred in her deep black eyes. She sensed me even through the wall of glass. I am not making too much of it. My awareness of her awareness was far larger than both of us. It was, as a poet once wrote, “like the breathing of a deity, or the difference between what is hoped and what is known.” That poet wrote the words on paper and then sang them. I don't know a single song that's not religious. The woman with the blanket had disconnected from me the moment that I had turned. Our story was over. She and her blanket had moved on. She was heading down the hall, maybe to the cell. I did not see her go but I felt it. She moved quickly enough that the air between us folded. I did not see her because I was looking away from her, at the deep black eyes of her mother. I braced for another shock and put my fingers through the glass.
