After my husband left, buildings became cardboard boxes. Now, strip malls, new-builds, and offices all beg to be squashed, folded, and recycled. I drive to the outskirts of town and stomp on abandoned factories. They crumble under my feet instead of bending neatly. Their removal opens the expanse, and I lap up the unrestricted air.

A painted bunting calls me to the clouds. The bird flutters away, weaves around distant trees, and sneaks into a nest tucked away in an oak. Mouths chirp, celebrating its arrival.

I press my finger into the crimson dirt and draw a house with three people inside. Dust clings to my skin. I erase one of the figures, then another, and finally, rub my palm over the whole house.

The bunting dives out of the nest and sticks its beak into the flourishing forest floor. It moves on and investigates the cardboard boxes. It lands amongst the destruction, shrieking and laughing at the fragile structures. A squawk catches in my throat. When the bird returns to the sky, this time, I follow.

Shoulders, smooth as spoons, walk into a bar after centuries stuck at the bottom of the sea. Algae and crustaceans once coated her pruned skin, until guppies nibbled at the clothes the ocean provided. An ancient creature dwelling in the depths chewed through the rusty anchor weighing her down, and the sea woman rose to the surface, bobbing like bait in the waves. She washed up on shore bare and cold. Inside the clamorous bar, her sensitive skin sears. The patrons of the establishment stare. She longs for a firmer shell, like those granted to crabs and turtles.

Decades later, she finds the bar’s exit. Sharp spears protrude from her rounded shrug. She runs back to the sea. Waves sweep her out past the shoreline. Her body lies limp, and a current drags her under, but she can no longer hold her breath. Gurgled screams explode from her mouth. The eruption taints the water. Her pointy shoulder draws the blood of a snapper. The ocean throws her up with the projectile force of a body rejecting poison. She sputters on the sand and sinks into the soft ground like a beached whale.

No one helps her back to the sea. Instead, two strangers grab her ankles and armpits and carry her into the bar. She whispers a warning about her sharp shoulders, but the man looming over her chuckles. Her hysteria rings through the vibrations of his cackle. The ocean’s pressure builds in her ears. She recalls the days when fish blocked her view instead of men, the bubbles they brought, the way they nibbled on her toes, and she longs for the nest that forbids her return. 

She turns to collecting trinkets on the coast and pondering the fluidity of home. Shells, wooden beads, and blankets soft as seaweed clutter the dwelling which keeps her warm in her intermediary life. The one separating the watery womb and the promised endless expanse of freedom. Both fade from her brain the longer she resides on shore. Though they do not disappear completely.

They shimmer in the sunset and whisper in the canary’s call. They resuscitate her spirit when she ducks her head under the waves and digs her knees into the sand. The water licks her sharp edges smooth again. She closes her eyes and waits for the day when, in a silky, steady voice, her mother calls her back to the sea.