“Sun Down”
by Amy Marques
Before Sean, Nina had thought she’d never be a parent; thought she’d always be alone. The world is full of lonelinesses, of seasons, of fangs that prey on fears. But Nina knows of spiders, of webs that reach out, that build and bind, which is, of course, the only way to survive.
Because Then Nina saw him—saw them—in front of her old bus stop: the girl, tears and spilled grape juice covering both her and the doll she held pressed to the adult-sized hoodie that fit her like a dress; and her father, Sean, not much more than a boy then, awkwardly holding the juice box away from his body and glancing to the side as if expecting someone to be there. Somebody who wasn’t there. Someone who knew what to do.
Nina had known what to do. She knelt next to the child, Alice, keeping up a stream of gentle chatter. A lifetime caring for younger siblings, then decades of preschool students propelled her, and she opened a tote bag Mary Poppins herself might’ve been proud to own and pulled out fresh-smelling wipes and Tide pens. She fixed her gaze firmly on the doll—it was less threatening, she knew—and told the doll it would be okay as she wiped her down, wrapped a clean handkerchief around her like an old-fashioned apron, and smiled at the doll’s blank face while the child composed herself.
Now Nina’s toes stiffen in her orthopedic shoes as the sun creeps down the horizon. But she doesn’t leave her park bench, doesn’t want to go home. Not yet. Home no longer feels like home. The keys are still the ones Sean gave her decades ago. For emergencies, he’d said then. And then it became home, she’s lived there since Alice left for college and Sean became too ill to live alone.
And Then came Sean’s request. After a whole world had grown within them: the park with Nina’s bus stop, the apartment windows that faced each other, winking from across the street as curtains settled in for the night, the time Alice broke her arm trying to use the neighbor’s skateboard and, because Nina knew Sean stuttered when he was stressed, she offered to accompany them to the ER although it was her first day off in weeks. A world of fevers, extra set of linen, spare toothbrush and children’s toothpaste—the kind that didn’t burn your tongue—in Nina’s bathroom drawer. Of cookies, books, popcorn, movies, braids, lip gloss, laughter, school plays, buttered pasta, and carefully peeled apples. Of calendars full of post-its and arrows and red circles: pick up scarf, drive Sean, pick up prescription, learn new recipes, read aloud, listen.
Now Nina’s calendar stands as empty as the house, a grid of white numbered squares, endlessly hollow.
But Then he’d asked: Would you? Take care of her? Be her guardian when I’m gone?
Sean had hated asking. Nina knew. She’d known him well by then, had watched him grow into his fatherhood, into himself. Had helped him up after his first falls.
She’d always known how to care for children. Trained for it even. She knew how to watch them grow up and out of her life. She’d been prepared to help Sean wave Alice off to adulthood, as she’d once sent preschoolers to new classrooms, reassuring them they’d be fine, they could come visit whenever they wanted.
Nina, please?
You’re fine, Sean. They knew it wasn’t true, but it took time to admit it.
But if I’m not? If I go before she’s… before—
I’ll be here, Sean. But you’ll be here, too.
And he was.
Sometimes death is a slamming door, resounding, vibrating walls, sending ripples through the air until windows shudder and porcelain illusion cracks. But Sean’s was mold, lurking behind walls, eating through padding, creeping in from the edges, tainting every inhale.
He’d been there to usher his child into adulthood, to gingerly walk her down the aisle, to have his grandchildren placed into his arms. But what Sean never quite asked for was that Nina would be the one to take care of him. Alice thought to move home, but they reminded her that she had her own life to live. Nina was happy to be with Sean. Wouldn’t trust anyone to do better. She’d known him best by then.
Now the sun melts into the horizon in waves that churn orange, churn pink.
Tomorrow she’ll turn eighty. With Sean gone, there’s nobody to remember the important things. Sometimes she wonders if he’d known how accustomed she’d grown to how he cared for her, too. She wondered if she’d remembered to thank him enough.
Back Then Sean insisted on ordering birthday cakes, although he rarely took a bite. Eggs, sugar, flour: all things he couldn’t stomach. He’d slowly move his mashed potatoes around, eyes dancing, as he watched Nina bite into a chocolate cupcake.
Now she won’t buy herself a cake. Won’t bake one either. It was never really about cake.
Because Now Sean is gone. Nina longs to stay forever in yesterdays, to hold the setting sun, swallow it whole.
Amy Marques grew up between languages and places and learned, from an early age, the multiplicity of narratives. She’s been nominated for multiple awards and has visual art, poetry, and prose published in many journals. She is a contributor to the collective The Pride Roars, fiction editor for Bending Genres, editor & visual artist for the Duets anthologies, author & artist of the chapbook Are You Willing? and the found poetry book PARTS. More at https://amybookwhisperer.wordpress.com.
by Amy Marques
Before Sean, Nina had thought she’d never be a parent; thought she’d always be alone. The world is full of lonelinesses, of seasons, of fangs that prey on fears. But Nina knows of spiders, of webs that reach out, that build and bind, which is, of course, the only way to survive.
Because Then Nina saw him—saw them—in front of her old bus stop: the girl, tears and spilled grape juice covering both her and the doll she held pressed to the adult-sized hoodie that fit her like a dress; and her father, Sean, not much more than a boy then, awkwardly holding the juice box away from his body and glancing to the side as if expecting someone to be there. Somebody who wasn’t there. Someone who knew what to do.
Nina had known what to do. She knelt next to the child, Alice, keeping up a stream of gentle chatter. A lifetime caring for younger siblings, then decades of preschool students propelled her, and she opened a tote bag Mary Poppins herself might’ve been proud to own and pulled out fresh-smelling wipes and Tide pens. She fixed her gaze firmly on the doll—it was less threatening, she knew—and told the doll it would be okay as she wiped her down, wrapped a clean handkerchief around her like an old-fashioned apron, and smiled at the doll’s blank face while the child composed herself.
Now Nina’s toes stiffen in her orthopedic shoes as the sun creeps down the horizon. But she doesn’t leave her park bench, doesn’t want to go home. Not yet. Home no longer feels like home. The keys are still the ones Sean gave her decades ago. For emergencies, he’d said then. And then it became home, she’s lived there since Alice left for college and Sean became too ill to live alone.
And Then came Sean’s request. After a whole world had grown within them: the park with Nina’s bus stop, the apartment windows that faced each other, winking from across the street as curtains settled in for the night, the time Alice broke her arm trying to use the neighbor’s skateboard and, because Nina knew Sean stuttered when he was stressed, she offered to accompany them to the ER although it was her first day off in weeks. A world of fevers, extra set of linen, spare toothbrush and children’s toothpaste—the kind that didn’t burn your tongue—in Nina’s bathroom drawer. Of cookies, books, popcorn, movies, braids, lip gloss, laughter, school plays, buttered pasta, and carefully peeled apples. Of calendars full of post-its and arrows and red circles: pick up scarf, drive Sean, pick up prescription, learn new recipes, read aloud, listen.
Now Nina’s calendar stands as empty as the house, a grid of white numbered squares, endlessly hollow.
But Then he’d asked: Would you? Take care of her? Be her guardian when I’m gone?
Sean had hated asking. Nina knew. She’d known him well by then, had watched him grow into his fatherhood, into himself. Had helped him up after his first falls.
She’d always known how to care for children. Trained for it even. She knew how to watch them grow up and out of her life. She’d been prepared to help Sean wave Alice off to adulthood, as she’d once sent preschoolers to new classrooms, reassuring them they’d be fine, they could come visit whenever they wanted.
Nina, please?
You’re fine, Sean. They knew it wasn’t true, but it took time to admit it.
But if I’m not? If I go before she’s… before—
I’ll be here, Sean. But you’ll be here, too.
And he was.
Sometimes death is a slamming door, resounding, vibrating walls, sending ripples through the air until windows shudder and porcelain illusion cracks. But Sean’s was mold, lurking behind walls, eating through padding, creeping in from the edges, tainting every inhale.
He’d been there to usher his child into adulthood, to gingerly walk her down the aisle, to have his grandchildren placed into his arms. But what Sean never quite asked for was that Nina would be the one to take care of him. Alice thought to move home, but they reminded her that she had her own life to live. Nina was happy to be with Sean. Wouldn’t trust anyone to do better. She’d known him best by then.
Now the sun melts into the horizon in waves that churn orange, churn pink.
Tomorrow she’ll turn eighty. With Sean gone, there’s nobody to remember the important things. Sometimes she wonders if he’d known how accustomed she’d grown to how he cared for her, too. She wondered if she’d remembered to thank him enough.
Back Then Sean insisted on ordering birthday cakes, although he rarely took a bite. Eggs, sugar, flour: all things he couldn’t stomach. He’d slowly move his mashed potatoes around, eyes dancing, as he watched Nina bite into a chocolate cupcake.
Now she won’t buy herself a cake. Won’t bake one either. It was never really about cake.
Because Now Sean is gone. Nina longs to stay forever in yesterdays, to hold the setting sun, swallow it whole.
Amy Marques grew up between languages and places and learned, from an early age, the multiplicity of narratives. She’s been nominated for multiple awards and has visual art, poetry, and prose published in many journals. She is a contributor to the collective The Pride Roars, fiction editor for Bending Genres, editor & visual artist for the Duets anthologies, author & artist of the chapbook Are You Willing? and the found poetry book PARTS. More at https://amybookwhisperer.wordpress.com.