Mayflies by Sara Veglahn Read Free Book Online Page A

shoots on its own. It hovers, it is small. It is the same every time.

    The mayflies had hatched. She was walking to the river and saw the bridge coated with their fragile bodies. After the séance. All of their transparent wings, so delicate alone, became opaque in quantity. Under the swarm, she walked unafraid. The mayflies—clinging to the ironwork, the trees, her hair. All of them living and dying.
    Once she reached the river it was impossible to see, there were so many insects swarming. She stumbled.
    Come down, come down, come down to the river .

    It was morning. The sun shone through new leaves. A slight breeze came through the windows and a sparrow sang on the high window ledge. There were people on the street below moving quickly, heading to stores, offices, restaurants. Some of them were sad and lost. Some had just spoken to their mothers, a few had yet to speak.
    My ladies were still sleeping. They looked like a collection of old costumes piled up on the bed. They hadn’t changed out of their dresses. Layers of emerald and turquoise and aubergine chiffon covered their bodies and obscured their faces. They were peaceful and silent.
    In the kitchen, I took out the coffee and things for breakfast. I put them on a tray. Through the window above the sink I could see the river. It glinted and shone. A barge was making its way slowly south. A few people had gone to sit on the benches on the riverbank. No one was in the water.
    I stood and stared. I was full of silt, churning, moving beneath a bridge, the sky was so bright, blue and full of clouds, I could see all the way to the bottom, it was suddenly clear I was moving towards the bottom—a heavy body sinking, my wings caught and broken.

    I am given a bouquet of peacock feathers and must carry them on my journey through mud. I am worried the feathers will be ruined—I can’t possibly keep them in their perfect state while walking such a long way. As I walk, they seem to become smaller, less grand, more like wet seaweed than feathers, and I keep them damp as if they were cut flowers. By the time I reach the end of the mud, the feathers are ruined.
    She goes to the library. She wants to find out more about what she has seen or thinks she has seen.

    She pulls several volumes from the stacks—a book titled Ghosts seems promising. She turns to the first page and reads:
    A ghost can be many things and take many forms .
    She puts the book back. She wants a different kind of information.

    They are there in the photograph. They hover behind me in a semi-circle, their bodies draped in cloaks. They gaze down at me sitting stiff in my best dress. I cannot see their faces but I know who they are. I know who I am too. I am there in that photograph. I stand here at the window, holding the picture up to the light.
    On the day it was taken it was hot, humid, and stormy. I was uncomfortable in the dress. The dark gray wool stuck to my skin and the high neck was damp with sweat, but it was the only dress I had that would photograph well. You cannot see my discomfort. I am unaware of the three women hovering behind me, looking down with grave concern. I stare straight into the camera. I keep still as I’ve been told. Then the brightest light I’ve ever seen and then a moment of utter blindness and then the bright light again each time I blinked.
    This day is like the day that picture was taken. The sky hangs low. Dark gray light. A rivulet of sweat runs down my neck and I stand at the window hoping for a cool breeze. I turn around and as I do I know my ladies will be standing behind me, their summer dresses clinging to their legs, their wavy hair plastered to their foreheads. They will stand there silently and I will turn and say, “There you are! I was wondering where you were—Why don’t we go outside? It’s bound to be cooler out there. Let’s see if we can get caught in the rain!”

    There was light and she was drawn to it.