Erma Bombeck Writing Competition - Winners
2007
Erma Bombeck Writing Competition
1st Place - Human Interest - Global
Kathleen Norman
Wilmington, Ohio
"Gravity"
| "Goodnight, girls," I say, sliding the barn door closed against the night air, leaving the horses to their evening hay and full water buckets. I walk down the gravel driveway towards the house, the last of the day's obligations met: work, home, daughter, dogs, horses. I can feel the baby monitor in the pocket of my flannel jacket, can sense the steady breathing of my daughter without hearing it. She sleeps soundly, dreaming princess dreams. Jingling dog tags remind me I'm not completely alone. I breathe in, smile. Spring is close. Somewhere between the thorny black locusts and the wood pile, the air starts to feel thin; the pressure escalates on my chest, like I'm hiking at a high elevation. The feeling intensifies, makes me want to duck, to sink down low where I can catch my breath. I fight the overwhelming urge to lie down on the ground, flat on my stomach, spread eagle with my face in the dirt. The crushing weight of my husband's deployment immobilizes me. During the day, every hour is accounted for by some responsibility, the weight of his absence is barely perceptible-there is no time to feel it. But every night, between the black locusts and the wood pile, I struggle to breathe. I battle gravity and the remaining days stretching out before me. I stagger and hitch up the pants that are riding low on my hips. A pair of jeans that didn't fit when he left. Twenty-five pounds lost somewhere between the barn and the house and the nine months he has been gone. A self-indulgent, angry thought comes: Let someone else bear this burden for awhile. Weekly trips to the grocery, daycare, post office, feed mill. Unsown grass seed, sagging pasture fence, flooding barn. Marauding raccoons, seizuring dog, arthritic horse. Cranky hot water heater, broken garage door, sputtering lawn mower. The tantrums of a two-year-old with an absent father. I feel a wet nose in my hand, then a dog bumping me with a wagging tail, concerned at the halt in my progress down the driveway. Through the monitor a little girl sighs and shifts in her sleep. The sigh gives way to a series of coughs, then silence as she drifts back to sleep. Her small body, like a counterbalance, pulls me forward instead of down. (Was that a dry cough or a wet cough?) (Did she eat all her dinner?) (Did the dogs eat their dinner?) (Did I latch the barn door?) The pressure on my chest begins to ease, gravity releasing me for another night. I look back at the barn and whisper, "See you in the morning, girls." And I walk on. |