April Ossmann

One among the shifting mass of humanity intent on countless destinations, one hungry stomach and dry mouth among many, one brain dazed by the speed and altitude of flights unnatural to any animal, by herding, followed by waiting succeeded by rushing, waiting, herding— and more flight incomprehensible to any body contained in this seemingly unwieldy mass of metal lifting improbably over Chicago, where a misty orange aura hovers over the city’s brighter lights, as if its soul sought ascension it could only attempt, as if the aura might break free and follow us, wherever we might fly, wheresoever we may rest— one with the multitude of humans en route through mystery, to mystery.

The last time he cut his mother’s hair the rude morning sun left no corner of her kitchen private, the light surgically clean where it fell on his scissors. Her hair fell in a blonde circle on the lake blue tile—smell of coffee and cinnamon; her laughing shook her head,Hold still, he said, his hands surfeit with the curl and softness of her hair. Three weeks after her death, a stranger entered the salon and settled in the chair. She had the color and shape of his mother’s hair, and when he sunk his hands in it, the texture, even cowlicks, individual as freckles—same. Twice he had to leave the room, and twice, he returned—still, when he touched her hair, it blurred. Hold still, he said,hold still.

Nevermind that keeping ashes on the mantel feels ghoulish, and comically impractical: not just another thing, a miniature memento urn, to dust, but dust to dust— I dread the conversational Hara-kiri, not,that’s what’s left of my brother, but,he died of suicide: the chasm of silence following the leap— so the cremains stay in the office closet till they migrate through no will of their own to a moving box I haven’t unpacked and likely won’t.