First Place | Flash Fiction Writing Contest

Entropy

Every Saturday, she takes the bus. Ascends up the escalator to women’s apparel at Macy’s.

Every Sunday, she walks to church.

Weekdays, she holds the quiet close. It is hers. After a loud life, she’s reached the quiet. She is not letting go. The lace on the bed cover. The percolator hissing on the stove. Batteries in a ziplock in the back of the freezer. Quiet.

Saturday. The bus. Lipstick and foundation. Fluorescent lights lend white a bit of blue to the blouses. Next floor up. A shiny row of pastry mixers. Down. Into the purple night. The bus. This is Saturday.

Sunday. Make the bed. Straighten the one wig. The scented powder pouf. A respectable blouse. Coffee. Lock the door. The crosswalk with people and their thoughts in English. Inside, the pastor delivers prayers from back home. The church band with the guira and guitar. Known things. Outside, the crosswalk. The people with their weekday plans in English. Shiny things. The sun is strong. Take the long way. It’s Sunday.

Monday. At the edge of the bed, the quiet is close. It took a big life to have this. She was beautiful. There used to be voices. The way they smelled. Like salt. Molasses. Her sons. Coffee on the stove. The bed made. The one wig. A dark red lip. It’s raining. The damp concrete. Past the bus stop, the newsstand. The paper and some mints, please and thank you. The good people beneath umbrellas with English in their thoughts. Her? Her memories. In Spanish, the one baby she lost. And the only boy who kept her. He kept her. And kept her. And kept her.

Umbrella folded in the bathtub, a stream of water pulls towards the drain. The paper on the small dining table to dry. There’s the day. The chicken thawing in the sink. The quiet is close. Thank the quiet. It used to be loud. Loud like a man with strong hands. Loud like a snare. Loud like a hungry baby. Loud like the first stars.

What if we started this way? The light needing to know itself. Come out of quiet and fight itself into a shape. A long, hot, timeless memory. Stretching out, feeding the darkness. Stubborn thing. But no, she backs into the quiet. Tuesday. The coffee, hissing. Keys. The green smell of rain hangs before the bus approaches. People traveling with American memories. Warm living rooms. Siblings with milk in their coffee and trousers with neat, front creases. Their children who laugh and ask easy questions. It used to be loud. Where am I arriving?

Wednesday. Thank the quiet. There’s leftover fried chicken.
Thursday, there used to be voices. The mints. And the paper is dry on the table.
Friday, she prayed for all this quiet. Blessed, blessed, blessed.

Saturday, the polished floor to the escalator step. A row of heels. She wouldn’t believe her eyes. Those loud years of hoarse prayers. Diamonds. Gold. Perfume. Try this in English. The people and what they said folded into more American memories. The bus stop. The sidewalk accompanied by a stream of traffic. The static city. Then, the soft apartment. The darkness swallows. Quiet.

The paper is dry. Women in black and white with faces in their hands. Men in uniform protecting something already lost. Eleventh floor. Baby. Dead. Suspect. Mother. Boyfriend. American memories. Something is rising. Something needing to know itself. Needing to.

At the edge of her bed, it feels hot. A need. When they took her daughter. Know itself. Then her son. Know itself. Quiet. No. She danced so openly, laughed with a rage. The light kept on knowing itself. This whole time. It needed to know. Stubborn. How bright is my sharpest grief? How much? How much can desire long without being seen? What else? What else can I survive?

What else? All in a woman. The end of the line. First light to star dust, turned gas, water, liquid rock, working, working itself. Perfectly becoming. Into a woman who searches. Where are her children? Where are they? All this searching, this knowing, these memories. Need to know, and search, and know. All this becoming. We need a Sunday. A department store. A long way home to dampen this erratic becoming.

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