As It Is On Earth

by Debby Schyman

Seth kicks open the door to his study because no one is watching. He boldly steps into the room and slams the door closed. He inhales, counts to ten and tells himself he feels better. Seth's gaze settles on the birthday cards neatly lined up on his desk. Using the card in his hand as a weapon, he flings it at the line up of birthday cheer. Every one of them folds and tilts onto the carpet, futilely wishing him a Happy Birthday. He strides to the liquor cabinet, pours himself a scotch and loosens his collar. He pauses at the mirror above the liquor decanters, watches his reflection and tries not to let it bother him. Seth wonders what happened to the face he used to know. He shakes it off and moves to the bay windows.

Yanking them open, he slams himself into the worn leather chair positioned in front of the windowsill. He sips his drink, chews some ice and spits the rest back into the glass.

"Old. I am old." He mumbles.

So. He thinks to himself. Here we are on this significant birthday. What say You for Yourself on this day?

Seth raises his eyebrow and stares intently at the cloudless sky.

God's mighty voice is silent. Yet again. I know how often we speak, but I can't stop myself from wondering what is to become of me. Every soul realizes his mortality. But what will, actually, be the result of me?

Seth continues to ponder the sky, half expecting an answer. He looks at his feet and notices that one of the cards has fallen near the chair.

"We tried to fit all the candles on your cake!" the card screams. Seth stares at it, remembers the punchline and fails to find the humor that seems so obvious to everyone else.

I am not like them. He looks up and continues his conversation.

Their obsession with youth and beauty continues to bore me to no end. We are all beautiful and fearless in Your eyes. I have reason to believe and that has served me well. I have planted a few gardens. Tended to their growth. I have accepted that the measure of a man is determined by You. Not by us. I want to be unaffected by this day. I am not a man who needs to sum up. I am a man who absorbs.

Seth kicks the birthday card with his foot and decides that he likes the sound of that last thought. He smiles at the naming of who he is; that he has the power to sum up the measured moments of his life, the careful decisions, the weighted frivolity and the answered calls, into one sentence.

There is neither success nor failure in a life of taking care of others. It is just this life. A thrust upon path. He thinks.

Seth grins, pleased, and he determines that he is ready to go downstairs. He stands up, stretches, and inhales the sudden breeze that enters the open windows. The breeze bears honeysuckle. The shock of the memory-triggered smell collapses him and sends him crashing back down into his chair.

Seth sees himself in this moment and sits, slack-jawed, at the movie that begins to play before his unwilling eyes. Honeysuckle was Sara. The memories fast forward.

He and Sara wearing matching outfits. He and Sara holding hands on that first day of school. He and Sara giggling on walkie-talkies on summer nights and discussing the construction of summer stars. Seth and Sara: brother and sister of different mothers.

When things changed for him, he never told her. He slipped to the periphery of her world and agonized. Everyone theorized and whispered that he was different. Seth knew he was different. On the last day of school, the summer before their senior year, he took the long way home, through the only woods that were allowed to remain in their suburban world. Sara jumped out of a tree, scared Seth quickly and terrorized him slowly.

"How've you been? Where've you been?" Sara circled around him, poking his ribs, remembering what tickled.

"Fine. Practice." Seth stared at the moss, ears burning red, and tried to decide which would be worse: breathing or breathing.

"So. Do you love me?" Sara looked up at him and he found her eyes and noticed that her lower lip was quivering. His last conscious thought was of what Sara was: a frightened girl who made bold gestures.

"It's my first memory." Seth mumbled before his knees gave way.

He only remembers pieces of the whole. He remembers that she didn't say no. He has clear images of the curve of her hip bone, the shock in her eyes, the smell of honeysuckle, he hoped heaven was as it is on earth, he felt like he had just peed, he knew what soft tasted like, it happened too fast. He tried to gather her in his arms, present a broad chest for her, and she started to laugh and he did too and they were in love and nothing would be wrong again. Seth gasps.

He stares blankly at the lawn. Realizes his mouth is open. Humbled again by Sara who had become a continual presence in the Present. Seth jumps at the knock. He twists himself at the waist, hides his glass and faces the door.

"Father, we're ready," Sister Ann says, only her face visible.

Seth stares for a moment, tries to remember where he is, and finally sees her for what she is: a fifty-two-year-old virgin who looks like Sir Thomas More.

He sighs deeply. He looks differently.

"Thank you, Sister. I'm done." The words find their own way out.

Seth rises, aches deeply, wonders who had gotten it right, tightens his collar, smoothes his hair and prepares his face for the faces he always meets.

Copyright © Debby Schyman 2005