cycles

She thought about death too much. She knew that. And now, after her mother’s passing, she thought about it even more. Daily, even. It would happen suddenly. She would be walking through the house, or just about to sit down at the dining room table, or in the car, or talking with a client, and she would remember her mother’s last breath. She would remember how surprising it had been, even though she had known for years her mother was ill, known for days that her mother was dying, when the actual moment came, it astounded her. How could her mother be alive and then not be alive? This still does not make sense.

She was sitting in a sauna piled high with lounge cushions someone had forgotten to take out. They had been placed there to dry out from the morning rain, but it was now afternoon, and the hotel staff had forgotten to take them back out once the rain stopped. She had scrambled over the cushions to sit in the one empty spot at the very back of the sauna and was now considering the mound of cushions below her. Maybe they would explode, or melt, or poison the air with chemicals. Then her mind jumped, skipped to another realm, and abruptly she thought, My father is just an old man. This was some kind of revelation. She sat with this revelation for some time, letting the sweat drip off her and puddling between her scapulae. Someday, I will be an old woman. Her body went slack with relief. She allowed her thoughts to unfold. Our cycles will come to an end, like Mom’s did. My daughters will read these words one day, and perhaps their daughters too, on and on, until the world explodes, or melts, or is poisoned with chemicals just like these stupid lounge cushions. This was it. Her bones were thick with heat, her muscles slack. This was something. But what? She clambered down off the sauna bench, slipping and sliding on the lounge cushions, slick as a newborn baby. My death will not be surprising, she thought, as she stumbled into the cold rush of rainy afternoon air. She slid her body into the cold plunge pool, the shape of a deep coffin, every pore stinging – killing and renewing.