Laura I. Miller
Gale in the Aftermath
Through her bedroom window, Gale sees a rectangle of blue; clouds that float by like paralytic geese; and a young Acacia tree, open-palmed and many-fingered, holding green sheets of leaves aloft. There is a middle-aged woman caught in Gale’s tree. Gale can see where the woman’s skin has snagged on a thorn, near the abdomen, the rest of her flailing in the wind like a plastic sack.
Years ago, Gale would have stacked a ladder at the base of the tree and fetched the woman from her perch. She would have offered the woman tangerine slices and paper flowers. But now there are too many.
Gale curls like a cashew and lingers in bed, ignoring the bluebonnets that pool in her curves. For weeks now she’s been trailing wildflowers—poppies and marigolds—their bodies landing softly on the ground as they escape through an opening in her wrist. They roll out like a red carpet behind her wherever she goes. She has lost weight.
And honestly—Gale just wants to let go of all that shit.
She thinks: the woman in the tree does not look happy, but at least she isn’t smiling.
Downstairs from the apartment is the photo studio that belonged to Gale’s mother. Gale descends the spiral staircase with coffee in hand. Gravity is becoming less and less of an issue, she notices.
Aaron waits in a swivel chair in the studio, punching buttons on the cash machine. Gale pinches shut the opening in her wrist when she sees him there. He will notice the pebbles she has been swallowing only for their weight. He will notice she is in the process of committing to hermitage—among other things. She bumped into a man on the sidewalk earlier that week. He was nearly
Laura I. Miller | 11