and closes his eyes. It’s late evening. Things turn out to be dizzy in the evening.
Sleep in the middle of the day takes your hand under the sunlight and pushes you away into the inky darkness. Sleep is a cruel companion. It is his companion.
Today he dreamt about Koila. Not even dreamt, he kind of remembered her, the loud laughter, long hands. Her jumping from his bad on the table, and white sheets, his work, flying apart, and her noisy ‘tell me a tale’, ‘who writes good stories with such a cold face’, her restlessness and impatience, her smiling voice, smiling gestures, a dress printed with small colored flowers. ‘You are so loud, kiddo.’
He said it, but he never had enough of that loudness.
She never had nightmares. Sometimes she dropped off, drawing on the floor or lying on the kitchen couch, and he carried her in her room. She was calm while sleeping, sometimes smiling. She, who lost her parents.
Sometimes she fell asleep while he was working late, and he continued working ‘til the morning not to disturb her with transportation. He never allowed himself to snooze near her. Through the first year he waked up several times during the night to check if she is sleeping well. She was always well. He never was.
She could have been his daughter. He wanted Shannon to be his wife. May be they would also had a kid, a girl. She could be his. Shannon’s dark weaving storm of hairs, long arms.. loud laughter.. She could be their daughter. He doesn’t differ greatly from his brother, after all.
He scratches his eyes and looks around mindlessly. He has no clocks neither here nor in the whole house. They couldn’t help to identify the day. Work at night and day sleep, household in the morning, nightmares and work, and daydreaming, and dreaming throw the nightmares and in them, and dreaming while being awake.
It is better not to know the hour.
He lost enough time already.
Thou it doesn’t feel so. He feels he hadn’t sleep for ages; he just turns off from time to time.
He places a bunch of papers on the table.
He needs to continue his work. It is his work – rewriting stories. Collecting piece by piece and composing them. Not everything his brother wrote is structured. These papers are rather rivers in flood, they intertwine and flew through each other, and each water differs greatly but all of them have something in common.
Sometimes he feels he is drowning.
They set a fire on the shore, not wanting to leave the tugboat. Erza stood and listened carefully the whirrs. Shouts of bats bounced off the cave walls, reflected by the river flow. His folks rumbling in the short distance. Crackling fire.
He turned out his pockets. Several seashells, one copper earring, pink glass hewn by waves, old mouth organ, a coin with a hole, a juniper twig and a jackknife. He left an earring and a twig, and picked up the rest.
After their stay he was the first one who wake up. Neither boat here, nor his testimonials. ‘Was it not enough?’ he wondered.
Then he sat down, waiting for folks to emerge from the dream kingdom.
Building operas out of bridges. That is his work. His brothers work.
He never dreams about him, ‘cause he was here. His hand over the shoulder, his fingers inside his, typing words. He carries him inside, his body carries. His body is the same.
He types: Where is the boat? Ezra? What happened?
He types: This River is best known for its plentiful waters – not their volume, but their diversity.
He types: He is there, playing with shells, see? Don’t worry. Come here.
What he felt while writing it? Does he need to feel the same? Does he feel the same?
It is his job. Rewriting stories. Pick up debris river spits on the shore. Debris of treasures.
Someone has to do it. Someone has to take care about his kids. After what.. after those who has left.
Shannon loved his stories. She liked to hold them, the papers. She seemed to hold them as a treasure. And Koile loved his tales.
He needs to save them for them. For all of them. It is his job now.
He knows his brother well now. He wrote there long letters feeling nervous, he tapped over the paper while thinking. Fingers covered with ink left some spots. He wrote during nights, ‘cause of mood. And he thought about her. All the time.
He is there, playing with shells, see? Don’t worry. Come here.
Her eyes reflected forks of flame. She loved sleeping on the shore near the fire. He loved watching her in this mood. Calm and bright, and very silent.
He felt himself staying far away and watching, looking at something he shouldn’t see, their life, kiddo on the shore, them kissing, the river. His arms on her back, her smile near his ear. He must not know how it feels. But he knows. He feels himself with her, with them, instead of him. River slowing by, the waves. His time with her. A long night.
He is not allowed to be there, but is the only one who can end brother’s work. He will. And then he will come down on the shore, at night, leave all his belongings and fall asleep, and never wake up on the bottom of the River.
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