Return to Dust

She appears, a wispy figure, featherlight and pale, wrapped in white cotton sheets. We yawn simultaneously but she doesn’t notice me. A shard of silver cuts through the glass, a slight glint pricking my binocular eyes, but lights up the scene across from me.

She stretches, shaking off the remains of a peaceful sleep and slides to the edge of the bed, toes touching the cold timber floor. She doesn’t feel it, even though her fragility suggests she should. I ruffle my frosty coat and feel the pleasurable warmth.

The folds in the bedsheet remind me of the cream frosting she used to smother on her Sunday cake. I used to watch through the downstairs window but that was a long time ago. The sheet conjures a distant recollection. I see it in her half-smile, although her delicate fingertips don't sense the texture of the fabric like they used to; numb.

She disapproves of the new room arrangement, furniture compacted together like pieces of a jigsaw that don't quite fit. It makes her uneasy. Surveying the room, I find symmetry in the cluster of cardboard boxes, stacked with precision either side of the bed frame. Furniture too, pressed in tightly – a battered wardrobe, a dressing table, its mirror dismantled and propped at an angle against the far wall. She floats towards it, effortlessly, and reaches to the scratches that mar the reflective surface. Radiant eyes beam back at me from a distance through the mirrored glass as I watch; predator stalking its prey. They are mine, eyeshine gleaming; reminding me it will soon be time to rest as the darkness dissolves. She appears to search for her face but cannot see it. Instead, I catch the reflection of my ghostly pallor.

She glides across the room, waiflike, absorbing her surroundings as though for the first time, seeking personal treasures she knows were once here, seemingly confused. The grandfather clock, in night shadow, gawks at me, time at a standstill, sad-faced, silent.

Silhouettes shroud the corners of the room, a stark contrast to the ashen moonlight pouring in. Plastic wrap and dust sheets obscure the rich furnishings that once adorned the space. I can still picture the candescent tapestry and velvet curtains looking sumptuous in the electric light. And the woman, younger then, lost in creative flow; a hunter of ideas for stories she would write, deep into the night. This is what invited my prying eyes to the bedroom window. She searches for a distant memory, slightly out of reach then let’s it go with all of her unresolved issues, for now her attention has shifted. Her eyes connect with mine, and she’s filled with a deeper understanding that goes beyond the dark; a yearning for a peaceful transition from the bardo she now finds herself in, and the belief that I am her spirit guide.

***

I hunt best when the moon looms large, drawing in my predatory power. A silky violet radiance marks the arrival of Winter twilight but the moon still glows, and underneath its light, I see it – my last supper of the night. A rodent, now locked in my nocturnal stare, is calmly unaware he is my target. In silent flight, I swoop down, stealthily hover above him, then dive head-first, talons outstretched to snatch my final meal. I wonder whether he knew death was calling. I don’t ponder for long for my survival depends on this. And now, belly filled, hunger satisfied, I resort to the same gnarly branch of the dormant oak tree.

***

The woman now leans towards the window, face as snow-white as my plumage. Pale lemon spills over the horizon and the soft purr of an engine draws near, then stops. A faint shadow moves through the downstairs window and then electric light fills the room. A visitor. I watch and wait.

The gentleman enters the bedroom, turns on the dim apricot light. Scanning the room, he breathes in nostalgic sentiments of the life that once filled it but he doesn’t see her. This is his third visit this week. I compulsively welcome him with a throaty coo. I’ve known his face for a long time.

He pulls back a dust sheet and perches on the threadbare arm of the easy chair. The small, ceramic mug he holds onto is filled with fresh coffee, and bares a faded illustration of an owl and a cat, a fragment of a story from his youth. He notices relics, lightly bubble-wrapped in corrugated cardboard boxes – some children’s books, a home-made Mother’s Day card. His tender smile is overshadowed by a sigh as he smoothes his fingers over the worn fabric of the chair. I remember him – the boy, balancing on the arm, his face alight with excitement as his mother read him ghost stories by the apricot light.

He is suspended in thought now, lost in the photograph he now grips. From the window, the pale woman watches, mesmerised by his expression. Tentatively, she moves closer to see the picture in his hand. The saturation has faded and the faces are bleached, like they’ve been left in sunlight but she is looking now; attention high and really seeing.

They look the same. Alabaster complexion, lips like coral and an affectionate smile, honey brown eyes set wide, watery now. The photograph intensifies their deep bond and physical similarities. Tears roll unapologetically down his cheek and into his coffee. She reaches to his back with her sympathetic touch, reassuringly. He shivers. "I miss you Mum,” he whispers.

And then he looks up. She watches his face but he doesn’t see her. He’s standing now, clutching to his heart, the childhood photograph of him and her. He sucks in a long breath, as if to consume a lifetime of memories of his mother’s room, and they step into each other as if welcoming their last goodbye. I don’t see her face but the man looks directly at me, sensing her presence.

Birdsong breaks the sombreness. He steps right through her ghostly apparition, and dust particles dance like embers in an upward stream of sunlight, dispersing ethereal light. And she is gone.

Now I must rest. Fly back to my roosting quarters in the rafters above the barn. As one life passes, new life awakens. The man stands tall and contemplative at the musty window. He diverts his gaze to the garden, and finds solace in a single snowdrop; a reminder that life returns after the cold.