Zig Zags

• Gabrielle Cant, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2021

***
“This too shall pass” - A Persian adage, reflecting on the temporary nature, or ephemerality, of the human condition
***

Zig zags.
My eyes drifted through their underappreciated complexities, so intricate, yet so unimpressive. Tiny little threads, meaningless on their own, woven into the pattern. A dull grey, their attempt to liven the room was weak, pitiful.

Funny how in times like these, the mind seeks to distract, rather than accept.

There was nothing special about these zig zags, sitting semi-faded on the chair, somewhat stained. And yet, my mind was so hyperaware of the way they wove up and down.

Linear in progression, but not in direction.

I started to wonder about the serendipity of it.

I can feel my trajectory, heading downwards, and in this moment, it feels so unnatural to be going forwards. And yet I am. The clock on the wall keeps ticking.

1:32 AM.

How did I wind up here?

30 years ago my line was just emerging, and she held me. And in that moment, my path zagged upward.

I trace it with my free hand, finger on the chair, the rough fabric grazing me.

That very day, our lines became parallel, hers stretching many years further than mine and yet converging with such ease.

25 years ago, I knew my first pain, and she held me. My scraped knee seemed belittled by what life had dealt me since, and yet the way it stung dipped my line downwards. She kissed it better and applied a band-aid, and helped me up and back on the bike I fell from. The bike she bought me.

20 years ago, I won my first award, and she held me. She told me how proud she was and squeezed my shoulder.

My finger continued to trace the pattern of my chair, the pattern of my life, the pattern of her life. The pattern of the screen in front of me. All of them interweaving.

Up and down. Up and down. Linear in progression, but not in direction. 1:33 AM.

2 years ago, she had her first fall, and I held her.

Our lines in unison veered downward when I walked in to her lying on the floor.

It couldn’t be fixed with a kiss better and a band-aid.

1 year ago, she had her first hospital stay, and I held her.

Our flowers weren’t allowed in the ICU.

Up and down. Or maybe just down. My life. Her life. The screen in front of me.

Zig zags.

1 minute ago, she took her last breath, and I held her.
And in that moment, there was no ups and downs, zigs or zags.
My life, her life, the screen in front of me:
A flat line.

Linear in progression - in direction.
1:34AM.