by Patrick G. Roland
She moved like the clouds, billowy in her rayon jumpers. She never liked picking sides—Miller Lite or High Life, rain or shine, cake or ice cream. “Why not both?” she’d say with a hazy grin. Her favorite color was rainbow, a trait passed down like her hazel eyes. She said colors, like people, should not have to compete. Never one to fear death, only silence, she believed the whales would greet her first. After she died in her sleep—another choice she didn’t make—I kept hearing the whales in everything that followed. Whales, she said, are angels with flippers. Their secret language was reserved for the worthy. They teach you to move through darkness with purpose. Many minds migrating as one. I peered into the cobalt sky, the clouds looked like white-capped waves rolling with purpose. I saw her diving deep, becoming fluent in whale song, and communing with humpbacks. A double-arched rainbow crowned the sunset. Rainbows, she said, are a circle when viewed from above. A halo for breaching angels. When we meet the whales, I like to think we finally get everything—rain and shine, cake and ice cream. A language to speak. A sky to dive into. Even the silence, at last, broken.
Patrick G. Roland is a writer and educator living with cystic fibrosis. He enjoys exploring other people’s attics and basements, where most of his writing ideas are created and sometimes lost. He lives near Pittsburgh. His work appears or is forthcoming in Hobart, CafeLit Magazine, 3Elements, Maudlin House, 50-Word Stories, and others.
Emerge Literary Journal 