The Color Of Drowning
You stayed for awhile, but then you left too. Eventually. There’s not much around anymore. Grandma would say it’s “barren.” She was the one with all those good words. I’m not as precise. I get frustrated not having words. My head feels empty a lot. I want to describe how the fields look right now, describe them so you might miss them. There’s some snow. It’s thin. Laying on top of the soil. The soil’s been bad the past few years. Remember what it felt like back then? The texture of it in my hands is different. Sally visited from Connecticut and had no idea what I was talking about. I think you would, though. Everything is disappearing around here. It all feels, I don’t know the word…unreal. Something like that. I sit on the porch and the farm across the street is gone, the neighbor’s house burns down, Billy dies from an overdose, some abandoned barns collapse, some old home gets destroyed in some way or another. Everything disappears while I sit on this porch. I sit here…just frozen. Paralyzed. Mama always yelled at me for freezing up as a kid. Whenever I was stressed. I’m sure you remember that too. Not my freezing really, but her anger. Do you still get all those nose bleeds? Grandma called them “persistent.” There’s so much space out here that I think I should feel free.
You sent me that photo of your new place. You weren’t in it, but I could picture it. I could picture you perfectly in that room. It suits you better than here I suppose. At least now. I tried to picture myself in that room, too, and as much as I liked to picture myself sitting there in that sunbeam on the chair beneath all your books, it just wasn’t right. I don’t have much to do here, and I’m sober now, so it’s easy to sit around and fantasize about the little I see outside of this porch. Sometimes I want to be the kind of person that makes sense in a beautiful room full of books, looking all creative-like, but other times all I want to be is running around in a yard full of dogs, chickens, and wild onions. I suppose I could be both, but I’m not. At least not now anyways.
There’s something romantic here, but you only like the idea of it being that way. You’ll call this place poetic in a paper, but you haven’t visited in ten or so years. The romance is just an idea. You’re not living it. I’m not sure what you’re doing, or how you’re living, but you’re sure as hell not living this. I’m sure there’s somebody out there that has said this much better than I have, but I hope you know what I mean.
The coal vein is still on fire, but I know you already know that. I think it will burn forever. Everyone leaves here, but that coal keeps burning. I still have that book you got me, but I can’t read it. I used to try to impress you, but that was a long time ago. I can’t read that book. Don’t have the patience. I wanted to keep up, but here I am living in the house my family has always lived in. But they’re mostly gone or dead. The only thing left around are deadbeat cousins. I suppose I’m one of those now too. Riley got kicked in the head again by one of the cows at my uncle’s farm. He’s been failing all his classes at the local community college. I think he might have to drop out. Uncle is still pulling cows, but I don’t help with it much anymore. The sound is awful and I hate seeing the chains. Poor things can’t really reproduce without us, but I’m tired of helping. These days it feels like hurting.
Paula just had kittens. I’ve been watching them fall off the steps and scramble back up. It’s cute.
I used to be ashamed of this place too. But I’m not really anymore. Despite there being nothing here, there’s always something. It’s not so barren. We have a forever fire. If there isn’t anything else special here, at least there’s that. Grandma had words. So did you. When she died I think you lost someone to share that with. I was so loud. Still am really. And you were so quiet. It freaked out my mama. Your quietness. I’m still working at the clinic. I don’t know a healthy person, but a lot of the folks around here are still smiling. Tom asks about you sometimes. “He was the best guy around. He was always down to help me out with all them trucks in my garage.” I told him you went to school a while back. He said, “What the fuck for?” and laughed his ass off. That laugh always makes me laugh.
I feel dumb here. You used to joke I was dumb, and it was playful and all, but I knew you meant it. Even if only a little bit. I never tried to be anything other than dumb I guess. What were you escaping from anyway? A few cows? The barns? Having dumb friends and family? I feel like the only person in the world that gets to experience this eternal flame. But there’s no one to share it with and Paula hates the smell. Sometimes I sit near the smoke in a lawn chair, imagining you sitting somewhere cozier reading a book. Did you really leave so you could read some books? You could have read books here. Above the fire our granddads’ granddads built. But now you’re off somewhere theorizing about a life you seem to hate. I was surprised to hear from you and hurt to find out that you were just asking me to get the rights to my experience. I don’t want to give you that. Not really. Want my advice? Don’t write about this place unless you intend to love it. If you’re not coming back, then just leave it. When you write about New Straitsville, you’re writing about me, because I’m the only one left. I don’t like the idea of being a part of some research paper. What is there to research? We’re just living here. And if you’re so interested, why don’t you come live our life, too? Grandma’s words always added something, made things clear. Do you know what I mean? I think you just use them now to hide something.
I looked up the word “liminal,” from your letter, and found it offensive. It’s like you’re putting all of us here in purgatory. We’re between Gore and Shawnee, but that’s about it.
PAIGE FRÜCTNICHT-PONCHAK was born and raised in Columbus, Ohio, where she graduated from the Columbus College of Art & Design. She studied briefly at the Sandberg Institute in Amsterdam before returning to Ohio, earning her MFA in Fine Art at the University of Cincinnati. She lives in Athens, Greece, studying dead languages and ancient literature at the National and Kapodistrian University of Athens. She is working on her first novel.
Midwest Review 