graphic by kayleigh woltal
Wilma is glad to be here. There is an entire body of water distancing her from the mess she left behind in London, and the people here are family, meaning they know her well enough to love her but not well enough to know her. She visits ritually every seven or eight months and dreads the airport every time, despite having come here her entire life. But yesterday, something about the plane ride felt like coming home. Maybe it was because there was nothing to miss at the place she was meant to call home. Maybe it was because she was slightly hungover from the night before. But nonetheless, when she set her feet on the ground she could taste the difference in the air.
Waking up, her complexion was red and splotchy, as it always was the first day by the sea. Wilma’s skin was used to Cera-Ve and the smog of the city, and was always shocked by the air so sharp it could almost crystallize into salt. By the second day however, she is glowing more than ever, and she knows it too, sitting on a sand dune next to her brother in the harsh heat of noon.
Joey is running his fingers through the sand in a way that Wilma knows mimics him plucking at his guitar frets. She knows he misses it. He took a break from being on a small cross-country road-trip in a beat-up Toyota with three equally-stoned basement-dwelling men with instruments, which they called “tour”, in order to join the family for Christmas. It wasn’t as far of a drive for him, he had been staying in Maine for the weekend anyways. He would be there until Monday.
Wilma was not used to being the wild card in the family. She had felt bad for her parents when she moved overseas, and so she made up for it by providing stability for herself and therefore the family name. Her job gave her enough time off to come here, despite being grueling, and for that she was grateful.
She props an oversize pair of sunglasses on her nose, lenses so dark they almost reflect black. The ocean is not as frightening during the day as it will be that night, as she stands at the shore and imagines running in and never coming back.
There is the sound of someone firing a BB gun in the distance.
Wilma has hit the point of insanity where she is unsure of what is right and what is wrong, or rather, what is real and what is not. This is the reason why she has no friends. She has accepted this.
She wonders if it is possible for the ocean to heal her when she doesn’t even know what’s wrong.
That night, she lays in the twin bed she slept in as a child at her grandmother’s house, under the same sheets that used to be filled with sand after Junes of days on the beach. The screen door groans and creaks behind the wide paneled front door, but she does not get up to shut it. Her mother told her once that she saw an angel at the foot of this bed. Many people have come and gone from this house. When the floors creak, the walls speak. The radiators start up late at night. Wilma used to hurry to fall asleep so that she wouldn’t have to hear them. Now she lays awake and feels each groan and grunt stab into her.
Wilma wakes up late again, but doesn’t remember closing her eyes. Mourning birds coo from the front yard. She thinks of how she will never be in fourth grade again. There is half an avocado waiting wordlessly for her on the countertop downstairs. She thinks of how she may decorate the house when it is one day passed down to her, then feels remorse and tries to force herself to stop thoughts of a future in which her family is not here. It is not wishful thinking, she tells herself, and it is not. It is merely acceptance. Wilma is reassured by the doubt that she will outlive any of her family members. When you put so much effort into living, you must die young. Wilma believes that you are born with a certain amount of energy. Energy may be a cycle, but it is not infinite, and Wilma feels as if she has expended most of hers in her formative years without even knowing.
Wilma is an aunt. This is how she knows that she would be a terrible mother. She has watched her sister raise two children and let them go. Wilma is not very good at letting things go. She can’t imagine bringing something into this world that she is unable to control. That is why she sticks to writing.
Wilma’s writing is weird. Her family members don’t like to read it because of its strangeness and its uncomfortable awkwardness. The way Wilma writes, it feels as if there is silence between every word. Upon hearing the words “I write”, family members and friends ask for samples of Wilma’s writing. She obliges, and is not disappointed when they are confused. Words would mean nothing if they meant something to everyone. She knows that one day, she will meet a girl who feels the same way as she does, and this girl will be held by her words, cradled by the security that she is not alone. Wilma hopes that this girl is herself.