The Bottom Shelf Review

I sit at the table in my darkened kitchen and pretend that I came out here to watch the sun rise. The glass of water in front of me stagnates unendingly, and I don’t want to think about the fact that the water and the glass and everything else is made of molecules, but I do. It’s morning now and I haven’t slept; the birds sing a reminder that they’ve won again.

The house is mostly a blur, except for that broken window. The altar of a figurehead- the vulture, something like a god, but less demanding. In my memory, he was there much longer. The reality is that he flew away before I really knew what he was, or what I wanted him to be. Still, something about his figure felt sacred; the unexpected appearance of a merciful god, a creature of grace risen from shattering glass and lost faith.

I feel that he is flesh and bone, and I am just an apparition of emotion, a dog that tirelessly begs for scraps at an empty table; a lamb, frozen solid at the barn door- eaten alive by winter cold and left to soak in the aftermath. But this is not a farm. The man- if a vulture is a man- does not tend his crop. Choking ivy climbs an expanse of desert, a crumbling porch.

The vulture throws his black and feathered body from the window as the ivy, hanging from peeling-white painted walls, waves goodbye. A single feather is left behind, resting gently on the sharp grass below. The bird disappears into the sunsetting sky, and something about the way he leaves me on the edge of his altar like a kneeling believer makes me angry at him. My eyes fixate on the feather in the grass: forgiveness, acceptance, mutual understanding. He wasn’t expecting me to kneel; he was only living without regard for either believer or god- a holy ghost who’s not used to being seen.

Despite my urge to explore his broken home, I sense that this is not what he would want. Something- perhaps within my bones, maybe even deeper, if such a depth exists- prohibits me from disrespecting the laws of nature. I sit in the dried and yellowed grass with my face pointed toward the window as if it were something holy- not everything that is holy must be worshiped. The broken window does not demand either folded hands or bowed head, only recognition. I imagine his black wings stretched perpendicular to an expanse of sky, or curved into feathered shoulders, perched on a power line or a pulpit.

I hear the toaster ding and the smell reminds me that my boyfriend prefers burnt toast. He always leaves the toaster setting on high, dooming me to an eternity of blackened bread. A deflated orange decomposes on the counter. I can smell its sour sweetness as I butter my toast, but I don’t throw it away.

I don’t change the setting on the toaster, and I don’t throw away the forgotten orange, and I keep my eyes open but not wide enough to see.

By the time I sit back down at the table my toast is cold, and I decide that it’s too early for breakfast anyway. I can feel the room shrink and expand with labored breaths, as if it, too, is trying to catch up. I pick the piece of toast up from the plate just to stare at the crack that runs across the flower-printed porcelain, remembering crashing plates and slamming doors that raise goosebumps on my skin. The burnt bread drops crumbs gently into my hand and onto the table, and I wonder if the super glue that holds the plate together is safe to eat off of. The digital clock on the oven flashes on and off repeatedly. Little slashes and lines form green numbers- 10:35. It’s the wrong time, and the blinking numbers press into my chest so hard that I can feel my heart beat as if it were right below the skin.

The weight in my chest is also a weight in my house. It lives in burnt toast and broken plates and the extra toothbrush. Sometimes I go into the bathroom just to check that the toothbrush is still there. That it’s there but it’s not wet, because it hasn’t been used in what might be a week, or two or three.  I stare at the counter, willing the toothbrush to sustain the memory of a mouth lost to us both, but instead the hexagonal tile of the bathroom spins me into nausea, and I leave the bathroom feeling more sick than before.

My neighbor’s lawnmower roars to life, sawing through the morning quiet. It’s Saturday, and the old lady who lives beside me has her grandson mow the lawn every weekend because it’s the only time he can do it. He shows up earlier and earlier, starting up his grandmother’s ancient lawnmower like a rooster crowing at daybreak. I follow the sound to the kitchen window. He’s young, a teenager who begrudgingly helps his grandmother at the request of his parents. A tall fence conceals the grandson and his work, so I guess maybe he isn’t young. I imagine he pushes the mower in neat lines, waiting to get home to his two kids, or his empty apartment (ever since the ex-girlfriend left), or what’s left of his homework. Regardless the mower drones on.

 I open the window and the morning air smells like grass and cigarettes, wet with rain evaporated off of sidewalks. It’s the sticky part of Spring; when the weather can’t decide if it’s warm or cold, and water vapor clings to your skin. Morning is my favorite time of day because it means the world goes on. It means that the rot that wafts from inside the walls hasn’t yet made itself to me. The sound of the lawn mower is louder now, but I don’t close the window because the moisture staves off the dry air in the house. My knuckles dry and crack and even bleed in places, fighting against the drought. I stand at the window running my fingers over the dry skin on the backs of my hands, reminding myself that Spring is the season of growth.

Spring is here, the rain is here, soon the desert will be green and lush.

A robin lands on the windowsill outside and pecks at the mesh screen with its small beak. I stand frozen, the sound of the lawnmower still grating my ears. The birds have migrated back home for Spring, and they haven’t let me forget it. At least somebody, somewhere, comes back home. The bird begins to peck more aggressively at the window, and I wonder if it is trying to get in. Stomach acid gnaws at my throat. I know that I can only fight them off for so long. One of the wires of the screen snaps as the bird clamps its beak down, and the lawnmower stops, as if halted by the broken wire. We all sit in silence for a minute, the bird and the lawnmower and me, asking each other what happens next. The robin’s beak takes hold of another wire, and I slam the window shut, putting a layer of glass between us. It stares at me and tilts its head, asking, “what did you do that for?”.

I hear tapping from down the hallway, and I consider whether it’s safe to leave the robin who continues to try his hand at destroying the window screen. The bird and I stare each other down, each waiting for the other to break. Finally I do, because the tapping has turned to banging. I turn the lock on the kitchen window and peek down the hallway. The sound is coming from my bedroom. My whole body goes cold, and I beg my feet not to freeze in place. The memory of crashing plates and shouting voices fills my head, coursing through my veins and making my heart beat faster than it probably should. I wait in the hallway hoping that the banging will stop, that I can go back to pretending to eat my breakfast and choking down the sour smell of decay.

The sound of breaking glass makes the weight in my chest drop into my stomach so fast that it threatens to come back up. I remember the feeling of cool porcelain held tight in my fingers, retrieving a piece of broken plate that scratched my hand and left scars that are still visible weeks later. My body shivers against my will, and I wrap my arms around myself. There’s a draft in the hall, and I can tell that the window has been broken. I know he’s in there now. I can still feel it- porcelain breaking skin, blood on the floor, silence because neither of us could bear to keep screaming at each other.

This can’t happen. I glued the plate back together. I glued it back together. I fixed everything. It’s all ok now.

I will my feet to go down the hallway, to see the broken window if only to fix another broken thing, to make everything ok. I don’t know where that tube of super glue went, but I’ll find it and I know it will fix everything again. I finally enter my bedroom and am almost relieved to see the broken window, to make it real. There are jagged shards of glass strewn across the quilt whose edges pull tight against the mattress on my bed. I kept telling myself that if I just made the bed, pretended everything was ok, then they would stop trying to get in. The birds are unrelenting. My boyfriend sits in the big red armchair in the corner, head sagging onto his shoulders as if he is shrugging at what has happened.

It’s almost a relief to see the vulture perch on my boyfriend’s knees, if only because he isn’t coming after me. I expect them both to turn to me, beady eyes boring into my soul because they know me better than anyone, because one of us has to face the consequences.

Instead, the vulture claims his meal, drawn by the smell of lifelessness and rot. A merciful god after all.