Feathers

Photograph by Federico Erra

It started with the birds. They fell from the sky like heavy black rain littering the ground. The media gave explanations that didn’t make sense, yet there were those who willingly believed them, because that’s what some people always do. Others became frightened as more and more reports of natural creatures doing unnatural things continued. It was as if they were simultaneously abandoning ancient voices to spread destruction from one end of the earth to another.

Had the birds been scared or had they simply forgotten how to fly? There were no easy answers as some continued to wonder while others clung to normality in desperation for something concrete. In time, the government took over the giving of answers until the memory of birds and birdsong had completely disappeared. Nothing had happened because there was no such thing as a creature that could fly.

That was the time before and all mention or thought of the time before was banned now that Mother was in charge.

There was no reason to worry. The skies were completely empty now except for the occasional cloud, but no one took the time to notice such frivolity. Pleasing Mother was the only joy. No one saw her except for the photographs displayed around the  of encampment and inside every pod. Each day, she welcomed them in thunderous tones to hear the latest news the world.

“My children, the world is yours and you are the worlds. You are my children and you belong to me…”

For some reason, Harold found it difficult to focus on his work of loading and unloading empty boxes at the depot. Though he had taken his daily dose of Forget-Yourself pills, a wisp of something kept dragging him back to the time before Mother had come. He tried to fight it by repeating the words he’d been forced to suckle since Day One; “Memories are my enemies. Memories are my enemies. There is nothing but Mother. Mother is all.” But nothing worked to erase it.

His wife noticed something off in his expression when he entered their pod that night. She didn’t ask him what was the matter. She didn’t ask him anything at all. Well-trained wife that she was, she knew that Mother was the only one allowed to ask questions. Instead, she sat down and waited for Mother’s voice to tell them it was time to go to the rationing center for their evening meal.

Harold barely ate any of his daily allotment of bean curd and was scolded by one of the elder children for showing a lack of gratitude to Mother. The elder child forced him to chew every bite of his meal while loudly berating him.

Harold’s wife said nothing as she continued to eat. She didn’t look up or take notice of what was going on, but neither did anyone else. It was more important to be grateful to Mother.

“Mother is your friend and provider. She is the reason we are here. Mother loves us.”

After doing his duty to Mother, and once again attempting to impregnate his wife, Harold lay in the dark thinking about the wisp of the thing that had haunted him throughout the day. He didn’t know what it was. He only knew that it must have been something from the time before. He knew it should have scared him, but it didn’t. Harold also knew he couldn’t tell his wife, since it was a spouse’s duty to report everything to Mother. Besides, he was her third husband in five years, so clearly she had no qualms about dispatching him and allowing Mother to provide her with someone else.

Harold continued to concentrate on the delicate-black luminosity of the wisp, which glided above him. Sleep finally overtook him encircling him with wisps of memories containing faces, words and abandoned dreams. He slept satisfied for the first time since Mother had come and awoke in his still-darkened pod with images of fluttering wisps still circling overhead.

As he stepped out into the damp morning air, Harold looked up at the sky and smiled. Then he took a deep breath allowing his senses to awaken from the dead place Mother and Forget-Yourself pills had sentenced them. The air smelled sweet, and though Harold did not know what it was, it pleased him, just as the wisp of memory had pleased him. He did not care that others saw him or would view him as a blemish that required removal. He inhaled the air so deeply that he sighed, and then he did it again and again, until a sound rose his throat and forced itself free.

“Caw,” he screamed, before laughing for the first time in years. “Caw,” he screamed again, knowing that his wife would become an indifferent widow once more. Would others hear? Would they remember? Would remembering make a difference?

“Caw, caw, caw, caw!”

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, except this moment and the delicate-black luminosity of a wisp.