Cristina Hawke

I paraded into the ocean on an empty beach. Isn’t it interesting? “Empty beach.” Empty of people. But it’s full of other things. Do you ever think about how many insects there are? If I knew, I’m not sure I could go on living. And not just to know as a figure, but true knowing. Like sprouting a third eye (and a fourth for depth perception) and seeing a little white glow for each one, up in the attic, the trees, all around me, and deep into the earth. I wonder if I’d still feel so lonely. I wonder if I’d be too frightened to ever feel lonely again. And the sand! Have you ever seen sand under a microscope? It’s breathtaking. You could spend an entire lifetime ooing and ahhing at the individual grains of sand from a single beach. Maybe even from a single bucket. Add to that the larger seashells, the larger creatures, the washed up seaweed, the garbage either washed up or on it’s way to being washed out, the empty cigarette packs, the empty plastic bottles. I said it again. Empty. But they...

Last night I dreamt about dying. This long drawn out process that never actually completed. Days of weeks of it. During an upswing, I ordered some Indian food from a counter. The owner–a man I’ve met a few times in New York City–said I had beautiful eyes and presented a selection of t-shirts, asking if I wanted to buy one. I told him, “no, I’m dying.” Then added, “do you have a smaller size?” He said they did not. I’d have drowned in the soft cotton of one of those shirts. It would have draped to my knees. Didn’t matter if it was red, or pink, or blue.. “No thank you, then,” I said. And took my food. I laid in bed on hospice, dying of old-age related somethings at 37. At one point I remember looking in the mirror under a dim light. I saw the wrinkles in my forehead and felt my stomach sink, but then I relaxed my worried face and they went away. Mostly, anyway.. but for faint lines that never used to be there. Faint lines that I could barely see under the dim light reflected in the clou...

I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth. An involuntary movement against the pain of the truth I cannot endure. Give me any excuse. My mind desperately searches. My arms shoot up from under the sheets, hands opening my laptop to write a few sentences that had occurred to me. Then just as quickly I shut it again and bring my arms back into the warmth against my body. My eyes dart around the room, looking for something I recognize. The horror sets in. A month ago, when I left I said, “Yes of course I’ll come home, but in a way, I can never come home.” It’s happened. My God, it’s happened. Tears well in my eyes, and I sit up fully now. Committed to the writing. I’ve gotten my nugget. My head droops, my jaw hangs, my shoulders slump. I haven’t come home. In my desperation for relief, I came home to the fantasy of coming home. And after a day or two, the dust is settling and I see that I have no home. I had a home, and I left it. You know, the story is complicated. I try not to paint myse...