The North

• Rebecca Cameron, Grade 11, Emmanuel Anglican College
• Short Story
• 2011

Excellence Award in the 'Step Write Up 2011' competition

The couple above are noisy. The ceiling shaking with the weight and vigorous movements of their youth. My weathered hand grasps the coffee mug at 4am and the apartment sighs, expanding its lungs and scent of lavender. Around me the results of time-consuming hobbies clutter as I stand hunched, pressing the throbbing, sore spots of my arching back. Gazing at the fridge, magnets from our adventures stare out at me and delicately held is a picture of us grinning ear to ear, your head crooked to fit into mine and my hand hanging about your shoulder. Creaks from above erupt, spitting into the night, my reminiscence is shattered by the soft chorus of moans begun.

Oh, to be young.

I am a shadow until the couple from above come to knock. I excuse myself, opening to them and allowing them to take in the scattered breakfast foods, the coffee stains on the mahogany table. My plate, her plate. The man tugs on her hand, squeezing it tight. They invite me to dinner. I politely refuse, “I couldn’t leave her all by herself,” I say.

They stand at my doorstep. Our daughter, our son.
“I’m having tea with your mother”,
“Dad…”
The apartment is cold, but I feel your warmth.
“Come home”, they plead.
“But she is my home”, I hold.

We have our last cup of tea, chamomile. I place your white, little cup in your white, little hands but it falls to the ground and shatters as you shiver, eyes fixated on the television, on the news; an image of a car collision. I shut my eyes and rock onto my heels, onto my toes. Your face plastered in those evil pixels; your tender face, your wrinkled eyes.

No.
Salty tears are drowning me as the couple above starts to sing.

Mounds accumulate of sheets and towels as you curl closer into the corner. I fill the bottom of wooden doors and the paint-peeled windows we had meant to fix. Blockading, sealing us in our cocoon. All this while the stove whirls, chanting charms and seeping venom.

I lay; my head in your lap, you stroking my hair as you always have done. I’m drifting above and your silken tone joins the beautiful song. “We’re just heading north”, you croon. I grapple your hand but you begin to disperse into the empty, chilled air. “No”, I wheeze, aware that I need to loosen my grasp. My fingernails no longer dig into your comforting flesh but my own palm and I find the music slowing into a gentler symphony, my movements slowing too. My panic softens and acceptance croons. “I’ll meet you in the north”, I weep. “The beautiful white north, where you will knit and I can build.”

Our souls so gently rise to greet the evening sky as the couple above begin to dance.