Thirty Years From Now

By Molly Gaudry

I will wake up and discover that my husband has died in his sleep beside me some time in the night, and I will be able to do what needs to be done because in my forties I found a way to get a grip on death, a handle on my fear, and so my fear will not control me then, will not freeze me in that moment, and my first thought will be rational, not emotional: Get up, call 911, ask if you can get him dressed before they come, comb his hair no matter what they say, get up now, find your phone, take care of everything before they get here, he is your responsibility, not theirs, yours, because you are the one who is here with him, because you are the one who has been here with him every night in this bed for the last twenty years, and you always knew this day would come, you knew this day would come and you married him anyway because you knew you would be able to take care of him in this moment, in these moments, like right now you are calling for help and you are answering the operator’s questions and when you hang up and look down you will see that you have reached for his hand, that you are holding his hand, holding it to your chest, and isn’t this what your vows were about—for better or worse, health or sickness, life or death—and so you are holding his hand, you are touching death, you are this close to death, you are sitting on the edge of his side of the bed, and you may have to sleep in this bed again tonight, or tomorrow night, or some night soon enough when you can’t sleep another night on the couch again, or maybe you will buy a new bed, but the point is that right now you are here with him, fully here, you have stayed with him, fully present, and you are in this bed, and you are grounded, which is not to say that you are fine, you are not fine, who would be fine in this instance, your life with your husband is over, but with regard to that fear you used to have because of your sister and what she did to you in your bed, you are fine, yes, you are fine, and you have had a good life, you have had a good life with a husband you loved, loved enough to know that you could sleep beside him every night for twenty years and that at any time he could die beside you, and you said, fine, you said, okay, I can do this, you said, yes, I can do that if it ever comes to that, because one day thirty years before you began to face your fears, fears that had kept you from living, and when you finally began to face them—in the early stages simply by writing about them—they were not strong enough to destroy you, but now, now you must begin to call the rest of your family members, although maybe first you should call your girlfriend who has been through this herself, yes, before you call anyone else in the family ask your friend what you are supposed to do now that you have called 911 and are waiting for them to come, ask her what you are supposed to do after you have combed his hair and found a way to get his cardigan on over his pajamas, ask what you’re supposed to do while you hold his hand and wait.

Molly Gaudry is the author of We Take Me Apart, Desire: A Haunting, and Fit Into Me: A Novel: A Memoir.

Art by Annemarie Waugh.

I wear my rabbit fur coat to the Denver zoo

By Stephanie Young

The rabbits at the zoo aren’t exhibits, they’re just like us: free agents who’ve come to consume garbage and taunt a more majestic class of mammals with their liberties; scads of the shivering lagomorphs casually slip in and out of the mountain goat enclosure, surely the last straw for the heavy-horned goat on the bouldered facade, fixed westward on the dusky silhouette of the not-so-distant peaks he once ruled, longing for his stoic herd, the indifference of the summit, the lover he’d mount in the privacy of vicious exposure above the treeline—it’s enough to make you ask yourself, is it alright to wear a rabbit fur coat, if I donate my own skin to the rabbits? all along knowing they could only fashion about 25 rabbit jackets from your tanned hide and at most 5 rabbit wigs from your scalp and hair, and that’s not enough to go around but life isn’t fair.

Stephanie Young is a psychologist, academic, and writer whose creative work has appeared in Twenty Bellows, Breakfast...?, BULL, Spare Parts Lit, Plainsongs Poetry Journal, and other fine literary outlets.

Art by Rae June.

"Winter Solstice, Kandiyohi County"

By Kristin Idaszak

& I walked out, summoned by the siren song into darkness pricked by shivering stars & I stepped onto the frozen lake, boots crunching in the snow, my footprints ampersands leading away from the drowsy warmth of the fire crackling inside the cabin & the wisps of clouds overhead mingled with my shaggy breath & at first it was disorienting, I couldn’t locate the source of the sound which seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere, an aural aurora borealis & it was low & moaning & inhuman; the only way I can describe it is like the whalesongs I sometimes play when I have insomnia, but this bellow was nothing like the tinny recordings emanating through my headphones & then there was rending and splitting as though the tectonic plates were talking to each other, deciding where to go after their shift, let’s try that new noodle place in town & what can I tell you about the moment I realized the music was coming from the lake itself, the ice settling in its wintry bed, pulling the covers over the fish & kelp (I've always wondered how they sleep through the long night) & suddenly I was wide awake & would you believe me if I told you that the music entered me & I became a being made of pure sound & frozen beauty &

Kristin Idaszak is an internationally produced playwright, essayist, and accidental cultural critic whose work excavates the intersection of chronic illness and climate change.

Photo by Shane Kelly.