Now she settled, nameless and humble, in a chair nobody had touched in years. Dust on dust, she closed her eyes. The whole house rustled with revelation, and the sky turned to a dream of bone-bright blue. The clouds stirred softly above her, and the leaves in the yard shifted from spot to spot in the sod, gliding between the fresh grass blades. 

There she sat, quietly, footsteps still echoing as she sank into the chair, reaching for God knows what, God knows where.

Now that she was finally alone, she was able to lay her body back and let it rest, with her mind drifting out from it like some kind of lost balloon, looking upon the death of her arms, legs, torso, head, and gravely final movements. Free at last, she pushed her sightless, deserted mind about the room like a cloud. The colors between white lines; she read them like forever’s words. Eternalized within the labyrinth of her mind lay every before and every after, as she stood looking down at her body that now tingled with the arrival of a slumber too eternal to be anything but its exact self.

So, this ghost of thought that was her mind, floating over the loss of her more bodily self before the great, complete death of both body and mind, looked helplessly at a scene that nobody else in an infinity of years would see. Taking in the last of the sight, she turned and, like a bird on spring air, flew out the door to no one and nowhere in complete agile elegance, untouched. 

Outlining it with azure, the sky carved out a flaming ivory cloud and shaded its fluffy insides gray, finally releasing the airy mass through the sky like the incarnation of an arrow, flying forever through the same usual landscape, so untouchable yet fragile. She passed this arrow-being in a reflective silence, the wind ruffling invisible feathers and streamlining memorial veils on the edges of her porcelain mind. This was grief, departure, and hands once held summed up into one effortless action. Some day, weeks from now, someone will go to the old window in her old house and see the tragedy of her body, instinctively murmuring a little prayer for the poor thing and walking away. This action was the unspeakable peak of life, and the peak of death also, in the exact same way.

And now she flew through the upside-down seas that washed up on no shores nor ended on rocky, clean-cut beaches, but cut away to tireless infinity, searching for a last resort from unplanned actions born in stubborn feeling. Sense and understanding she had left with her body; now, only possibility remained. Between untold walls and through flowing doors, she walked across water in clumsy grace, like a water strider through painted skies. Somewhere she was never meant to be, yet infinitely belongs.

Coming back down, she stilled upon the ground. Her mind fluttered softly. This was the house. She took a phantom pain that still lingered in remembrance, applied it directly to her unwavering source, washing her mind over with the existence of this memory, this pain, and entered the house with her echoes held strong, polished and restored to full voice. 

“Iris,” said the memory, tight about her. “You—” The evocation released its grasp, pulled away by every contented thing inside her that did not dare let themselves die. A hurricane of feeling, then a rewind, a nightmare, anger and uncertainty storming across a theater screen all at once in a headache of blended emotion as they shoved, kicked, fell, struck, jostled to make room for themselves to be able to get back up once again and perform those same actions, once again.

She let go. 

It was a slow though stable process. First, her grip relaxed, then undid itself, unfurled from around whatever attached that hidden organism that was her to the world. Then a swirl of swift winds and sweet scents scrambled her away in fear of misfortune’s aftermath and disapproval’s impact. 

But, beyond that? She closed her eyes and softened her mouth, let her eyebrows arch leisurely above her eyes, let her nose breathe candy airs, and her body, miles and miles away, rejoice. 

She opened her eyes. In that attic-kept chair, she woke. In that bleached blue seat she lay, whispered, observed but never moved. Her thoughts, loud as reverberating voices, explained to themselves past and present happenings. But . . . soon? Time rolled the coming hour about in predictable waters, making it soggy with every day’s break. 

She paused. Was this demise, in its hushed ink exact? Or was death whatever came after this, this just being the transition? Did she already miss her chance? Did she already miss her chance at something more than death… Life?

What’s happening to me? 

What’s happening to me?

What’s happening to me?

What’s happening to me?

What’s happening to me?

What’s happening to me?

What’s happening to me?