The Grass Couch
by Branigan Grace © 2006
"Lie down and tell me your troubles," he whispered.
She ran her hands over the couch, baby grass tickling her fingers. She
laid her head on the mossy armrest, breathing the damp earth-scent.
It reminded her of tramping the woods as a child. She clutched grass,
digging soil between her fingernails.
"Tell me your troubles," he said again.
Her voice coughed out, unused to talking about herself. She cleared
her throat, started again. "My life -- it's so heavy now,"
she started. "I can't carry it anymore."
"What makes it heavy?"
"Everyone. My family. I love them. But they are always at me. Someone
is always there, wanting something. Clinging onto my body. I can't carry
them anymore." Traitor, she thought. Guilt burned her chest.
He began to rub her temples, his touch a breeze. "How does that
make you feel?"
"So tired. The weight of it." She looked up through the trees
branches lacing the darkening sky. "I miss being happy. I miss...
myself."
"Of course you do," he soothed, his fingers whispering in
gentle circles in her hair.
"Yesterday morning I came back from work, from my shift at the
hospital, and my husband wanted to do it. Right then, you know, before
the kids got up. Before I even put down my car keys. I did it. And I
didn't feel a thing."
He massaged her shoulders. "You don't have to do that anymore,"
he said. "You can just rest."
She felt the light fade, a comforting darkness pillowing her. "The
kids -- always needing something, every minute of the day. My parents,
with their medications, their breaking bones, their memories half-there.
They call me to come help. What can I say?"
He nodded. "It's too much to expect."
"It's wrong say these things." She leaned into his touch.
"You can talk. No one is here to stop you."
She went on. "The cat, always hungry. I clean the house and it
dirties up behind me." Her tears made watercolor of the trees.
She closed her eyes. "I know it's just everyday life. I can't even
handle the ordinary anymore. Today I couldn't even get out of bed to
do laundry until three o'clock. Then I came here."
He put his arms around her. "You don't have to do laundry anymore.
You don't have to do any of it. I will take care of you now."
She buried herself in his chest, breathing him in. "I just want
to sleep," she said.
"Just sleep," he agreed.
It was so lovely to let go of the worry. Sink into the earth, let him
take her mind and body.
"Just take your last pill," he reminded her. "It will
be finished. Only one more."
She rubbed the pill between her fingers like a charm. Lifted it to her
mouth. Touched her tongue to it.
So bitter.
She heard a distant voice, a child's, calling her. She pictured her
daughter, wearing the denim dress with the missing top button, running,
shouting her laughter aloud.
Her heart broke wide open. She sat up.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"I can't," she said. "I have to go back."
"To what?" His touch turned cold. "To more of the same?"
She took the pill between her fingers. Digging deep, she let it be swallowed
by grass, by the earth.
"You'll be back." His voice, disappointed, seemed farther
away.
"No," she said. "I love them more. There must be another
way." She stood, brushing grass from her clothing, and stumbled
toward the laughing child.
HOME