The Anchoring of Frigid Ships
by Aleathia Drehmer
Sharon sipped the day-old flaccid seltzer from the plastic cup shaped like a stalk of bamboo and sadly winced at her ineffable laziness as the bloated lime touched her dry lips with a regrettable tanginess. She was propped in her bed, swaddled below in several blankets and her aging pashmina around her shoulders. She noted the colors did not match each other and laughed at herself for caring about such things when she couldn’t even lift her body from the bed for fresh water.
It dawned on her that one should not be so cold at the end of summer, yet she harbored the chill of winter on every inch of her body. Icebergs moved slowly across her abdomen and sailors anchored their frigid ships to her lungs making it hard to breathe. Sharon didn’t even have the strength to find the telephone to complain about her condition, so she sat there watching night clutch at this summer day through the window. The sun was dipping over the horizon on the other side of her roof splintering the light towards heaven; it was a teasing of warmth she could almost wish for.
She thought it would be nice to close her eyes and wake up from this world of collapsing seasons, this global treachery that had her shivering in August. And as she slumped down onto her pillows, she watched the shadow of a hawk soaring— rippling its body between the branches of an oak, contemplating the possibility of hope.