A sense of security, of well-being, of summer warmth pervades my memory. That robust reality makes a ghost of the present. The mirror brims with brightness; a bumblebee has entered the room and bumps against the ceiling. Everything is as it should be, nothing will ever change, nobody will ever die.
Vladimir Nabokov, Speak, Memory
The woman who used to be the girl in the triptych mirror is standing in her bedroom looking at her husband’s sleep apnea machine placed on the floor next to the bed. It’s the middle of summer. A four-armed fan below the cathedral ceiling, muted and drowsy, is crawling through the hot air. Late afternoon light is coming from between the blinds, leaving a shadow ladder on the rug. Outside, a bumblebee is bumping against the glass, coming back from the same starting point as if on a string. She kneels on the floor and lifts the bed skirt. Under the bed, a round pool of water the size of a dinner plate glistens in the lazy light. This is the second time. The first time, a week earlier, she had wiped the water unable to find the source. She touches the floor between the water and the rug, moves her hand under the rug. She lifts the sleep apnea machine and touches the floor. She removes the water container and shakes it, puts it back in. She runs her hand on the tube and the nasal mask. Again, she can’t locate the leak.
Link: https://www.birchbarkediting.com/microlit-almanac/water-under-the-bed-danuta-hinc
