A-Void by Babak Govan (phonics readers txt) 📕

a wave of water leaping over and into the river. I speed up and soon the street ascends into the foothills.

We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time.

—T.S. Eliot (“Little Gidding” from Four Quartets)

We circle up the forested mountain covered in brilliant snow, patches still atop branches of pine, glistening infrequently in the short light that peeks from around the bends. The Mercedes-Benz-Audi-BMW slides over a narrow pass as I wipe the fogged windows, but we continue to ascend with ease. Through the clearings of the steep mountain cliffs, I see the flood below; it has taken over most of the town. I figure now that a mountaintop view will be helpful in looking for human activity.

Finally, in a shallow valley, we arrive at a log cabin atop stilts. Heavy forest blocks our view from any monsters that might hide there, but the impending night forces us to spend the night here.

The air is sharply cold and I feel the steam from my mouth float back onto my cheeks as I unload Willie, the mynah bird, and Zebra and place them on the porch. I break the door open and immediately notice firewood stalked beside the fireplace. I return to the car only for a fresh bottle of vodka.

At nightfall, Cleveland and I return to the porch with my bottle. I take a seat on a wooden chair made of thin logs, place a lantern by my feet, and a blanket over my lap. The fog brings with it the scent of the surrounding city and I think I hear a soft song playing somewhere. It is the sound of an old flank piano played like a mandolin and after I realize I cannot find it, I imagine it singing the city to sleep. I look into the sky and exhale deeply. Life is but the warm air between your cold lips.

I remember our honeymoon in Interlaken, Switzerland. Jasmine bathed in the tub in the middle of the dim bathroom. My fingers slipped across her skin freckled like wet sand and then caught onto it again. She wrapped herself in the warm towel I had brought her and then joined me on the balcony to watch fireworks falling and crashing blurrily onto our champagne glasses on the railing.

A voice in my mind sings, “Rest your knees down. Watch the red stains smear, in the warm water flood. You are safe, my child, in the womb of my love.”

I open the Projector of my Organelle v463.2 and attempt to draw a picture of her, titling it “My wife.” Teardrops fall into the projection and make it impossible.

The empty bottle rolls off the porch. I limp inside, fatigued, and somehow start the fireplace.

My head is messy. My temples ache as though the ends of pencils are pushing them inward. I plummet into a lukewarm tub on the dusty floor upstairs. My back has healed completely and fresh skin is growing over my palms. I imagine blood running underneath the scars. My beard has become a writer’s beard and dips into the water.

Peering into the morning outside, I notice that the cabin still has colored Christmas lights hanging from its rain gutters. At the foot of the downspout, by a stilt pillaring the cabin, I watch the rain carry small pieces of snow with it.

I find a cabin nearby resembling a tall ice castle, barely warmed by the fading green trees around it. Within them, three fawns search the ground. A bird flaps its wings above me as it makes its way to the castle, upon which it lands but almost slides off. Two of the fawns watch it. I figure its wings are too long for its body.

Cleveland and I explore behind the cabin and discover a small orange grove beside a creek. I place my feet in the creek, and the ice sheets slide around my ankles as they float downstream.

The trees are blossoming with a magnificent scent. I remember Jasmine making her own perfume on the bench beside our pond. I imagine us there, her arms like warm feathers, wrapping me as I gently place my head on her lap. She reaches into a bowl of strawberries sprinkled with sugar, rubs one along her lips, and asks me to kiss her. I knew then that we had shared a past life. Then we sleep beside each other on the grass. In the haze, Isabella splashes in the pool.

I remember how she used both hands to secure an earring and how she blew her straw wrappers at me. “Hey, look up and see our daughter running along the beach.”

As we perch beside the ice, memories of Kayla flood me. She held my hand tightly as we walked to a lagging river in a furrow, sheltered and concealed. We kissed against a tree. A few clouds started above us, gray in the centers and white at the edges. We found a small park bench in a field. Pink blossoms from the shaking tree above us joined the wet orange and scarlet leaves at our feet.

She opened a bag of dewy, salted yellow and red cherries. As we ate, I watched the sunlight and shade chase across her face, a kaleidoscope showing me that I would always love her.

We didn’t care that it drizzled, and soon the blue sky radiated again. She placed her cheek against my chest and I felt the warmth of her stomach, the life in her blood. Innocence is the most fragile thing in the world, and love is the most precious.

I awaken my Organelle v463.2 and write.

My dearest and most affectionate Kayla,

I am hoping I can write you this letter, through my tears. From the first moment, I wanted to hold you and keep you for myself forever.

It’s been many years since you left, and as much as I cry, no