u s e y o u r h a n d s

At first, all she saw were his shoes, one untied and the other on the floor. She followed them up and up to his hands clutching at the rope around his purple, pleading neck. In all honesty, she was not surprised. Slow and then speeding fast, she realized he was not dead only dying. He must have just done this. At her feet, the note. There was time to skim, which she did. No affair. Not a heroin addict. Just in despair and longing for anything else. Anything but her.

So she let him have what he asked for.

She felt the nail break as she swept her hand over the ground to collect the creeping charlie growing on top of the mulch. The nail, on her ring finger, held on, caked in dirt, broken half-way down. So many of her nails had broken this afternoon. Just that morning, she had held up her hands, fingers splayed, and thought about how pretty and even her nails were.

She pulled the creeping charlie out by its tough root. The weed was a tough customer, but she was tougher indeed. And with each more break, each more wince, she grew stronger and her garden grew lovelier.

She sat, in her office, late that night. She sang to herself, songs that she wanted to belt but didn’t. Even though she was alone there, in the dark. Long ago, the timed lights had gone off. She wanted thai food but didn’t order, needed to go to the bathroom but did not dare get up. Everything was different there since the announcement. There was blood on her hands and recommendations to write, which she did not care to do. A pile became a pyre and she watched twenty-five years burn to the ground.