Windward Review Vol 21 (2023): Myths and Hauntings

Her husband had taken to death like a rabid dog. Then he had taken
an amphora to the skull, shards of glass filling his hair, one large shard
piercing his eye socket. She’d had to push it further down, further in, until
all motion ceased. For him, she held no pity or regret. If only she could.
Perhaps, perhaps. Perhaps if her husband still remained dead it
would have been easier for their family. Perhaps ending his shade had been
a mistake. Perhaps the soldiers could have used him, just as her family could
have used the money earned from turning him over. Perhaps, perhaps.
If only, if only. If only she’d kept the family dagger on her person
at all times. If only she’d assured her daughter that death was different for
everyone. If only she’d concealed the way seeing her child that way hurt. If
only, if only.
When her daughter’s time came, she lingered for more than a year.
Her daughter had been raised with more control. She would not be like her
father. Silent dignity. She fumbled through her remaining days, quiet as
possible for the dead, struggling to help with household chores, delicately
gumming her porridge after acquiescing to the teeth extraction. Her formerly
graceful fingers now worked tirelessly, nailless and clumsily, at the
loom all through the night. Clunk, clunk, clunk. Neither the woman nor her
son could bring themselves to tell her daughter that although she had no
need for sleep, they did.
She was found, stretched on the kline, slumber eternally peaceful,
dagger holding her mouth firmly shut, fresh red already beginning to turn
brown, neatly pooled on the shroud she’d woven for herself. If only.
Perhaps, perhaps. Perhaps her son would be different. Perhaps his
own indifference would keep him from his sister’s fate. Perhaps he would
one day stop shuffling through the gates of the cemetery to sit at her table
with those empty eyes. Perhaps.
Gently, the woman began to sing a lullaby, one she hadn’t sung since
her son was old enough to walk. It took several repetitions but eventually
his attention focused on her and he stood from her table.
If only, if only. If only she could imagine his staggering stance that
of a toddler learning to walk, a young man learning to hold his drink. If only.
Gently, slowly, the woman led her son’s mortal shade to its resting
place, still singing his lullaby, their own private ekphora.
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