Treading the Boards - Essay Example

Outside her window the snow was melting from the branches, there were more people on the streets. She brushed her hair a lot and seldom read anymore.She sat in her window and brushed her hair for hours, and saw a boy fall off his new bicycle again and again, a dog chasing a squirrel an old woman peek slyly over her shoulder and then extract a parcel from a garbage can. The notes at the end of these days were much as they had been all along. The boy would draw a little something and the husband would report on the day. Often the notes would be nothing to her. Paper and ink, a smudge and a smear. On occasion they seemed to fill the whole room, leaving her gasping for breath. Her window became her portal to the outside world. For the whole of the day, for many days on end, her gaze took in the happenings of the street. The boy would occasionally come into view. There were fewer crashes on the bike, a dog was seen in his company on occasion and when not a dog, companions. Once, when the weather was foul and the first biting cold of an autumn permeated the panes, she withdrew to her desk. Her skin was becoming as paper so she studied her hands, wondering what she should do with such white hands. From under the door came two letters. Both were proper notes. One written in the flowing, masculine hand of the man and the other in the cramped text of the boy. Snow was coming soon, reported the man. The cat had kittens, said the boy. Taking her pen, she first traced the letters of the man’s hand, again and again until the paper was sodden with ink and besmirched beyond legibility. She began with the boy but found the construction of the letters so contrived she immediately destroyed both in the fire. Returning to the desk, she made to write. She would write to herself of the views from the window each day for some time. She did not need reports from them. They were sodden and trying. Her first note would be to the man. I can no longer read your news. Please understand. I know you will. She wrote nothing to the boy. Placing both notes under the door, one written and one blank, she returned to the desk. Paper and ink were now life and air to her. Sheaves of fine paper were now to be had, transpired from hand to hand through the door. The new girl was capable from what she could tell. Her nighttime jaunts into the kitchen for sustenance and use of the privy were sometimes enriched with a sweet on a plate for her. Who placed it there she had not idea. The sweet was devoured at the table, alone, in an instant. The man attempted to meet her on occasion in the kitchen. Silently she took the sheaf of paper from his hand. His hands were becoming paper as well. The seasons, the traffic and the pavement became the events of the day. Blood and ink from blister and pen decorated the stacks in her room. Details of strokes given to her coarse hair by the brush, her hands of paper, the dust made live by her ink only to be crushed by the weight of another page the next day. She measured the height of her life and her living by standing next to the pages and measuring them against herself. Day after day a page, two. To the shin and then the knee. A stack to the waist and then her bosom. Tricky the stack were when they grew so high. Care and keeping, these were the words she whispered to the stacks, the pages, herself. Care and keeping. The first stack by the right of the mantle. The second to the left. Boxes and crates made the page one spring morning. Young couples and old couples. People with dogs and carrying carpets. A chair. Trucks and busses and couples. With the writing done, she felt a stirring. The stacks were speaking to her and she could not understand. Her paper hands were spotted now. Spotted with ink and paper and care and keeping. Care and keeping, but she was missing something in the stacks. She began with the first, as high as herself. Reaching up, she read of hair-strokes and paper hands. She read of a linen nightgown and coarse hair. She read of her life. But she couldn’t understand the murmuring of the stacks. Page after page was consumed but still they murmured. An errant turn knocked the oldest of the stack over onto the floor, a carpet of pages littering the room. She looked at the floor, the desk and the window. The murmuring stopped when she retrieved two notes from the desk drawer. One in a flowing masculine hand, the other a likeness of a dog. They will want bread and turkey soon, she thought. But first a note for them to let them know I will be coming out of myself. Ink on paper from a paper hand and coarse hair falling into the envelope. One sealed with her practiced hand. The other letter was blank. Crossing the room, the stacks seems to murmur to her. She would not give her attention to them any longer. They held nothing for her. As a show of contempt, one after another, she cast them to the floor. What good are paper and ink anyway, she said to herself. What good are you when there is a turkey to roast and bread to make for myself? She thought. Opening her door, she was surprised at the resistance she felt. The hinge was unyielding. She was confused because the door was fine the night before when she went to visit the kitchen. Treading the boards in the hall, she called to the man to come receive his not and prepare for supper. It was then she noticed the chair, the carpet and the table were gone from the house. Through the door and into the yard she fled, seeking the man, but here was no one there save a small boy, a dog and a middle-aged man. Read More