“The sky is still a place to consider” George remembered. “Please help me”, she whispered to herself over and over again. She had absorbed the atmosphere into her skin and felt the tears fall onto her cheeks. She turned to face herself in the mirror and rubbed the water from her face with her hand.
Hell was private. Everyone in public knew that.
She stepped back from the mirror and moved out into the garden under the umbrella of the sky.
“I’m not going to let you make me feel like crap anymore, that’s it” she told the universe as if settling some score. “I’m not alright and yes, I have a problem. You never thought I’d confront it, did you? You never thought I could face the ten foot demon in the room.” She dusted off the power that feeling held over her, and imagined its atoms disperse into the night sky.
She turned the patio light on and it cast its shadows among the trees. She decided to do some planting. It was a cold night but it felt like it cleaned her insides. She reached for the bucket and brought the trowel and mat with her. She had put the heathers she had ready to plant on the flower beds and kneeled down to make a hole in the earth. The smell of the soil filled her senses and she kept digging until she could dig no further. Her trowel hit something hard and she tapped at it. It seemed like metal. She brushed off some of the soil and could see some glass. She pulled at a corner and started to dig around it. She gradually pulled out half of what was appearing.
She could make out a title, ‘High Waving Heather’ by Emily Bronte. George scanned the page in its glass wooden frame. She looked around her wondering where this had come from. It looked like it had been buried for a long time as the earth had stained the glass, and the paper was old and faded.
George instantly liked the poem. It was like the poet knew that life’s pace is treacherous and fast and that these were only words for the offering.
“What a strange place to find this, considering the title”, she mused. She looked for more clues at the back of the frame and inside it but to no avail. She dug deeper to see if she could find anything else but there were just rocks and earth. “That’s it”, she felt. “I could dig up this whole garden to give this greater significance. All I have is this night and these images this poet has given me flowing through the bloodstreams of my body.”
The night enveloped her, and just like the poem, took her away.
Lena O’ Connell
Lena O’ Connell graduated from the Limerick School of Art and Design in 2009. She
specialised in fine art, sculpture. Lena currently lives and works in Tipperary, Ireland.
She teaches art to children and is aspiring to undertake a higher diploma in
Image Courtesy [Lena O’ Connell]