One Side of History

If there’s one thing that writing history has taught me, it’s that it really doesn’t matter which side of the line you’re standing on in a fight.  Everybody’s a bad guy because they are willing to do anything to survive.

Or at least, that’s what I’m telling myself today. Yesterday I quietly sided with the rebels, but today the police were standing between my daughter and the rebels.  Not that she cared about what the rebels want. She’s not interested in things that happened before she was born, so the why of the protests isn’t something she notices.

I told her to stay out of it. I told her she shouldn’t be taking sides when she didn’t understand. It’s not really legal for me to tell her what I remember, though, so I fell silent when she shrugged and said she was going down there anyway. She said she didn’t see why those idiots should change her plans for the day. I thought back to the way I had distanced myself from similar “idiots” in the past, and found I was unable to object without undoing decades of careful phrasing of events.

The bottom line is that I agree with the idiots getting beaten in the streets, but I’ll fully support crushing them to keep my daughter safe. They’d crush me if they could.

Waiting for Annabel Lee

I’m in Annabel Lee’s garden when sun abandons the sky. It’s taken me a month to distill the right flowers:  a poppy pod, some valerian, a bit of passion flower.  Nothing as obvious as deadly nightshade. I don’t want to die; I merely want to slip into purgatory for a few hours.

The small angel that marks Annabel’s memorial glimmers in the fading light, and the moonflowers unfurl their fragrant bells to welcome the darkness. I’ve no reason to be impatient now that I’ve made sure everything will go my way.

Annabel designed this garden to come alive at night, and it does. The frogs begin singing.  The nighthawks swoop to capture whining mosquitoes. The weeping willow rubs its branches melodically. The moonlight spreads out like silk on the pond, and a thousand white flowers glow along the water’s edges.

Sitting in Annabel’s dark heaven, I smile as I sip from my vial.  Just enough to ease my way. I know I’m not welcome where I am going.

Annabel is not watching for me when she enters her garden. She’s running her hands along the flowers, searching for anything that needs her tending. She checks the pond for debris, then drifts over to pluck a dead branch from the holly. She’s focused on her little world, utterly unconcerned about me and my suffering.

“Annabel,” I whisper, and she ignores me. “Annabel,” I say louder. She stoops closer to her flowers, and I suspect she is smiling slightly as she runs her thumb over the petals. I stand and step closer. “Annabel,” I say in my warning voice. She stands and starts to move away. She thinks I’m powerless and weak. She thinks she can leave me.

“Annabel, you will pay attention to me,” I say firmly. I emerge from my dreams and grab her arms to turn her toward me.  Her dismay at my power is as it should be. She is so stunned she tries to pry herself free, something she had not done for years before her death.  “Annabel,” I say in my kindest, sternest tone, “you should not have tried to leave me. That is not allowed.” Her years of training do their work; she shifts her gaze to me and says woodenly but without resistance, “Yes, dear husband. What do you want?”

Now she knows there is no parting from me.