Postcard #4: From The Liquid Mirror

by Karyn Huntting Peters

(The Continuing Tale of Spirit Antarctica)

Falling to the center of the earth can be endless and dark. I reach down, pick a flattened kernel of Jiffy Pop from my left shoe. Italian leather. I inhale the memories of the gourmet pesto and the serviettes that kept the wine from staining the marble floors. So long ago. We saw our reflection in the window, smiled, and it was almost enough. Remember how we didn’t wear rough canvas then? How the feel of silk, of warm skin, quieted the screaming agony of Neanderthal’s cry in the forest?

Falling, falling. My mind jests at scars freshly feeling wounds. You’ll wake up soon, it chides. The ice age never came. You are sailing, the lighthouse off the foredeck. One sun only, and it is the lighthouse. I see it in the window, too, but how? The fire, its reflection the same? We touched our fingers to the reflection that night after dinner. The window wasn’t entirely solid. We reminisced about looking glasses and ships sailing through the cool clear.

Falling, falling. Slowing. I open my eyes and I am awake. Relief, nostalgia. It’s gone, all gone. My alarm clock must have jarred my dream. I have to get dressed for work. Italian leather shoes, I think for some reason. Slipping on the right one, then the left. How annoying! What’s this? She stuck in her thumb and pulled out a kernel of Jiffy Pop. Flash!

I hear you whisper: Close your eyes now and wake up. Where am I? Cannot see. Adjusting to the light of inside earth’s blackness. Is it you? Yes, you say, reaching out half of the window reflection. Your skin is warm, fingers long and gentle. Are we close now? Mmm hmm. No vowels. I shiver nearer, encase my coldness in the rough canvas I know so well.

It is here, that last vestige of Raisinettes. I look up. Into your eyes. Is this the way through the looking glass? Your breath tumbles over my face. Yes. Stay where you are, listen for an alarm clock, and you will forget this place forever. Taste the Raisinette and there is no turning back.

I remember the projection room. What was that purple rectangle, who were those suns? You once gave me a birthday card with a daisy on it. A single transparent daisy. I carried it with me always. There is nothing under my feet now. No snow. No popcorn. Neanderthal’s cry. The ancient pain. Lost. At once I understand it. No. No! I will not forsake what is real!

I clutch your canvas sleeves as they begin to fade to silk. Wait! Yes, yes, Raisinette! Kiss me now, full and gentle, let me taste the other half from Spirit Antarctica. Your mouth is warm, soft upon mine. Slide shows of eternity, Neanderthal, Antarctica. The white grows brighter, brighter still. I swim in crystal lagoons, deliquesce in your kiss. Patrol coats melting, I hold you close. I see your heartbeat. Gravity is drawing us closer to the inevitable. Light of the liquid mirror fades in as the projector bulb, warm again, grins onto the Cheshire screen.

Our restaurant window reflections reach out. We smile. Touching the liquid of the looking glass, ripples flow out, surround us. Can you breathe it in, live without the oxygen? Yes, I think so. It will be different on the other side. I laugh. I trust you! No fear, you ask? No. The drawbridge between us is lowered. Ripples closing in. We feel the pressure as we begin to melt into the mirror. No fear.

I’ll count, you whisper. Then we breathe in. Don’t fight it and it’ll be easier. No, no, I won’t. Three… time bending. Two… heartbeats drowning Neanderthal cries. One last kiss, the taste of Raisinettes... ONE.

Down the rabbit hole.