Trail of Broken Twigs
by Shareen K. Murayama
They say everyone remembers their first roller.
A roller uncoils cotton straps; a roller feels the apex of the carousel’s height, leans into more nothingness, flies five or six stories. A roller’s a bad night for us.
For Calvin, it was #1022536, Glendale. Even though there were no shifts or squeaks when he checked lines and fluids, an eyebrow would ripple like a salute. We could read body language if we wanted to. We didn’t want to.
Thousands of red envelopes // fall like leaves leaving winter // struggling where grass elbows sidewalk // over and around unmoving limbs // chain-linked at dusk // even the unwanted // want to be touched.
In Japan, there’s an actual mountain, a creation myth for granny dumping or ubasute.
Calvin was almost too bright for us. I was a spotter, meaning when a monitor green-lighted, our job was to observe any signs of life, or provide medical attention, or determine the cause of death. They almost always died of natural causes, but a roller could start a brush fire. My worst night, we had nearly two hundred fires.
The mountain would always be a remote one, almost too difficult for a son to climb while carrying his aging parent on his back.
When the hospitals burned their charity // they positioned the stationary // on sidewalks // farthest from doors // pocketing or pinning red envelopes // Nobody // wanted their red.
Yes, they looked a lot like hotdog machines, prone in bun-like baskets, tilting every hour to prevent bed sores. The baskets rotate like a ferris wheel, but this is no carnival. No one leaves happy.
Within the red envelopes // held their spoken names // for the last time // some accomplishments // and medical histories // a premeditated obituary. // Family names and addresses redacted // a parent surrendered // The city refused to acknowledge // the problem.
Calvin had his favorites. On quiet nights, he would pull residents’ files, red envelopes x-rayed. I just want to know who they were. Monica Bay was one of 2,500 residents under Calvin’s supervision. Last residence: Glendale, CA. She was a retired professor of Asian Poetry, widowed, two kids, four grandchildren. A family photo taken in front of a garage. According to the numbers, she had been a widow for nearly twenty years, lived on her own until she couldn’t, lived with her kids until they couldn’t.
Folded into and double underlined // proof from the freshly severed // saying fresh strawberries and clotted cream were their favorite // if it could somehow be managed // with profuse apologies sandwiched between // backstory // running water // cleans all hands.
The story says the aging mother would stretch out her arms, catching the twigs and scattering them, so her son will be able to find the way home.
Shareen K. Murayama lives in Honolulu, Hawaii. She has degrees in English from the University of Hawaii and Creative Writing from Oregon State University. Her art has been published or is forthcoming in The West Review, 433 Magazine, Ghostheart Lit, Crab Fat, Prometheus Dreaming, Inter|rupture & Phoebe. You can find her on IG & Twitter @ambusypoeming.
