Melissa Jordan Willis, Untitled
The Puffin
Gill O’Halloran
When you died, a puffin landed on my head.
The heart attack unzipped my universe, a forked lightning flash of clarity before it all went black. You were there. And then you weren’t. By the time my eyes had adjusted to the dark, the puffin was roosting.
At first, I didn’t take much notice; I was still waiting for you to come back. We’d met late in life and painted the world differently: mine, sfumato; yours, chiaroscuro, but our union was a compelling balance, love layering the brilliance of poise with the depth of waning years. When you ventured away, you always returned.
And so, at first, the puffin came and went, leaving the beak-bite of her claws on my scalp. But as your absence grew more present, she became my familiar, and I missed her when she left, my head wounds, a proud tattoo.
Eventually, she took up residence on my high and lonely cliffs, but she was never safe: Counselors hammered iron rungs into my legs and the length of my spine and began to climb.
The puffin burrowed deeper.
Psychologists were bolder, helicoptering above me, winching down on ropes. My puffin extended her burrow into the meat of me.
Far below, the therapists circled in kayaks; people say they crave the exquisite delicacy of a puffin heart. They were smarter, didn't chase. When you’re ready, they said, dangling sand eels from their boats. I was scared–if they trapped her, even your goneness would be gone. The puffin didn’t budge.
I rarely left home, always kept my puffin safely burrowed when I did, but sleep was not my friend that night, and I needed air. No need to hide her, dark skies would disguise.
I was walking in peace, allowing myself memories of your hand in mine, when a stranger appeared from the shadows and grabbed me. I screamed, but he gently took my hands, placed them on his head, and I felt the oily slick of feathers.
“You too?” I asked. He nodded.
No need for further words. We fell into step and walked until we found a bench. There we sat, shoulder-warm next to each other, and waited for the dawn.
Our puffins squawk, look out across the bay towards the rising sun. They don’t fly off, but now and then, as we relax in the spreading warmth, they flap and flutter their wings.
Gill O’Halloran
When you died, a puffin landed on my head.
The heart attack unzipped my universe, a forked lightning flash of clarity before it all went black. You were there. And then you weren’t. By the time my eyes had adjusted to the dark, the puffin was roosting.
At first, I didn’t take much notice; I was still waiting for you to come back. We’d met late in life and painted the world differently: mine, sfumato; yours, chiaroscuro, but our union was a compelling balance, love layering the brilliance of poise with the depth of waning years. When you ventured away, you always returned.
And so, at first, the puffin came and went, leaving the beak-bite of her claws on my scalp. But as your absence grew more present, she became my familiar, and I missed her when she left, my head wounds, a proud tattoo.
Eventually, she took up residence on my high and lonely cliffs, but she was never safe: Counselors hammered iron rungs into my legs and the length of my spine and began to climb.
The puffin burrowed deeper.
Psychologists were bolder, helicoptering above me, winching down on ropes. My puffin extended her burrow into the meat of me.
Far below, the therapists circled in kayaks; people say they crave the exquisite delicacy of a puffin heart. They were smarter, didn't chase. When you’re ready, they said, dangling sand eels from their boats. I was scared–if they trapped her, even your goneness would be gone. The puffin didn’t budge.
I rarely left home, always kept my puffin safely burrowed when I did, but sleep was not my friend that night, and I needed air. No need to hide her, dark skies would disguise.
I was walking in peace, allowing myself memories of your hand in mine, when a stranger appeared from the shadows and grabbed me. I screamed, but he gently took my hands, placed them on his head, and I felt the oily slick of feathers.
“You too?” I asked. He nodded.
No need for further words. We fell into step and walked until we found a bench. There we sat, shoulder-warm next to each other, and waited for the dawn.
Our puffins squawk, look out across the bay towards the rising sun. They don’t fly off, but now and then, as we relax in the spreading warmth, they flap and flutter their wings.