A Tail Told by Shiroi

I hate flying.

It makes my ears hurt. Not just that stuffed sensation but really, really hurt like with an odiferous infection; the kind where the cure smells worse than the cause. Attendants hurrying by see my wide eyes, my strained swallowing and think I am afraid. That’s not it. I mean, I am but that’s not it. My eyes swell from the cabin pressure. I try not to think about this because it distracts me from my job.

We compress our time too much. We compress ourselves into little spaces then decompress. Decompressions. Don’t think about that. It depresses me. The cabin pressure compresses into tight little places where I am afraid. I’m depressed. I’m depressed and I become depressed. Forced downward and rearward into the cushions and the metal. Not even my traveling companion hears my subvocalizations. I don’t like traveling. I don’t like it because it takes me from my family and friends but it is a big part of my job. Usually we travel by van. I hate flying.

I can never speak how much I hate flying. So, I pray. I pray hard. I pray that nothing will happen, that all will be well, that if something happens my companion will be safe, that if something happens at least my husband is home with our children, that they will be safe, that my friends will help them, that my employer will be all right, that I will be all right, that god will spare my companion to take care of my children, please god, please god oh gentle god I’ve been good keep them safe I’ve been good someone help someone help us we’re stuck I’m stuck oh gentle god I’ve been good I

* * * *

"It was a good service as such things go, I suppose." "Yes, very much in character. Direct, economical, nothing spared or wasted."

Mrs. Edwards rolled nearer, unnoticed.

"How were they sure?" "Oh, they made positive identification. That horrid tattoo."

Mrs. Edwards rolled past, unremarked.

"But were they certain?" "I told you, yes!. Besides, it wasn’t as if anyone else resembled her."

* *

Mrs. Edwards glided to a stop, the little box jiggling on her lap just a bit. Worn, weary fingers tugged at the twine tied with a butcher’s bow. Clarence -- faithful, patient, old friend Clarence -- stood to one side, mindful he could not assist. Jerkily, Mrs. Edwards unhurriedly unwound the string. It would have been easier to just cut the damned thing, she reflected but that would have been improper. She would never have done so, and so I shall not, Mrs. Edwards decided. Finished, she beckoned Clarence.

"A little bit of her. Her left forearm and her hip. That’s all they retrieved, Clarence. Barely enough after burning to fit this little package. Will it suffice, do you think? I suppose it must." Carefully removing the lid, Mrs. Edwards sighed deeply. "We hoped she’d come home eventually. She did love this field so." Another sigh shuddered through her thin breast then Mrs. Edwards straightened to her full height (which was not so much). Extending her only arm, she spoke crisply: "On with us, then, Clarence!" Pacing them to a silent dirge, Clarence moved the chair containing Mrs. Edwards abreast the field while she tilted the open box precisely; close to the ground, so the breeze could not catch up the dust into flight. The box, now empty, disappeared into Mrs. Edwards’ handbag. She withdrew a bit of dulled metal. Handing it to Clarence, Mrs. Edwards said, "She would have preferred you do this, please." Clarence silently strode to the middle of the footbridge spanning the fishpond. How many times, she thought, did I watch them walk this path to drop stones into the water simply for the pleasure of the sun’s rays upon the ripples? After a moment, Clarence dropped the medallion into the shallow pond. It seemed to Mrs. Edwards that he smiled ever so slightly as the concentric waves spread, but that could have been a trick of the light or of the tears in her eyes. After a decent interval, she called, "Clarence? Would you take us home now, please?" Clarence hurried to her side. Once certain she had a firm grasp on his vest, Clarence bent his four sturdy legs to pulling Mrs. Edwards up the slight rise towards the house. He felt -- as much as dogs can feel -- That Mrs. Edwards would miss his lifemate more, perhaps, than he already did. But their puppies needed him and Mrs. Edwards now, and that was good. There would be days and days to mourn. And he would.

-- Memoirs of The Service Life

Copyright © 1999, 2001 by Shiroi Doma. Reprinted with permission of the author.