Lethe

Photo by Megan Nixon on Unsplash

One day, Miss Bingley will have to purchase a stepladder to reach the top leaves of the West African tree she grows on her apartment patio. As it is, the tallest leaves are now up to her shoulders, but one day, the tree will be as tall as a man. Taller. Every morning, she lovingly wipes down the dusty, lyre-shaped leaves, thinking of Hermes who had appeased Apollo with the gentle sounds of his stringed instrument.

Later, Ms. B, as the children at the apartment complex call her, appeases her father with a rich meal of beef bourguignon. She sets beside him a crystal lowball of whiskey while she finishes her preparations. He flips through the pages of his newspaper, his presence and expectation of service a sign he had forgiven her for her divorce. If he naps on her sofa after the meal, it means he is satisfied. If he harumphs and leaves early, something is off. She never asks.

She stays up late after he departed to transcribe legal depositions and court proceedings to earn her keep. She will never marry again, she thinks later as she turns off the light for bed. But is that a terrible thing? She doesn’t know. Her son is off somewhere in the world, dreaming his young-man dreams. It seems to have worked out after all, hadn’t it? She hasn’t decided. She closes her eyes and dreams dreams of a man ferrying a boat over a river of forgetfulness where, in a moment, she will be no one.