The Box

Quiet, 2010

She sat up in bed and stretched her arms wide. As always, the words began to flutter above her head in a neat circle, but today she did not write them down. She shooed them away. She had big plans.

It was dusk when she turned onto the small and unfamiliar dirt driveway and whispered I'm home.

The first box she unloaded held her treasured rosemary plant. She fumbled and almost dropped it while chasing a fly from atop her nose. The jostled needles released their strong scent into the air. She placed the plant in a small sunlit window, stepped back, and smiled. It was fine.

The next morning she noticed her rosemary had shed a few needles. She bit her bottom lip while picking up the fallen and tossing them out the door.

Her waiting was patient, but the words did not return. Not a single word fluttered. None this day. None the next.

She recalled the writer's trick of busying oneself with another task so the writing feels more like bunking off and less like work and began unpacking boxes.

Around lunchtime she sat down on her sofa and rested her feet beside the plant. More needles had fallen. She clenched her jaw as she swept the needles with one hand into the other and tossed them out the window, loosening her jaw once they were out of sight.

It's really quite simple she told herself. The words are confused. They just aren't used to this unfamiliar territory. They'll be back.

She went out for a walk to clear her head, down Main Street, alongside the creek, and then beside the pond for sunset. She and the air were still and quiet. They'll be back.

She awoke early the next morning. No words. Continuing her strolling and gazing and sighing, weeks passed. Everything was unpacked and in its place. Her energy waned. She began to grow tired earlier and earlier each day. She stopped reclining on her sofa and propping her feet up beside her rosemary. She avoided it. She couldn't bear the sight of the fallen needles and ignored them as they multiplied.

She dressed each day, but only sprawled out on her unmade bed, shoes and all, and stared at the ceiling.

Once in a while she'd check on the naked twigs, formerly her lush rosemary plant, hoping it would come back to life.

The walks through town with now familiar faces and sunsets were like wading through sludge, so those too ceased. No words. She was baffled. She'd left the urban noise and filth to set up her rural life, as a writer should. What had gone wrong?

Sitting up on the edge of her bed, her head heavy and body listless and slumped over, she smiled as she noticed the sun shining on her rosemary. But as she focused her sleepy eyes all she saw were sad dry twigs surrounded by a ridge of faded needles.

Feeling short of breath and a little dizzy, she unfastened the top button of her blouse, and then the next button, and the next, removed her bra, jeans, shoes, and socks.

She drew the curtains and pulled the box she'd used to transport her rosemary to the center of the living room and gently crawled inside. She crouched forward, her back forming a perfect curve, and lifted her right arm to close the box over her head.

Nestled in the small dark space, the flutter of words returned, but not above her head. They now formed a long silk-like string and began slowly and securely wrapping themselves around the curve of her body.