Bird's eye view flying over some gorgeous landscape: mountains with some left over snow on them, early start of spring reveals buds of flowers and lush grass. Even the bees and butterflies are enjoying the scenery. This could be Switzerland, or the country of Georgia. Uninhibited and raw, but not wild and tropical as, say, Peru.
We stop on a small hill on top of a mountain. Lillies are growing out of it, tanning in the sun. Then... a GRASS COVERED DOOR opens, seemingly coming out of the hill. Out of it, exits a woman who hasn't seen the light of day in what seems like YEARS. She covers her eyes from the sun, her hand shakes in the attempt. It seems she has given all of her remaining strength to open the door from wherever it is she came from. But it also seems like in a different world, a more inhibited world, in a societal world - this woman would welcome the light on her. Her feet are bare but they seem dainty enough that in a different world - she could be wearing the fanciest slippers and most glamorous stiletto heels. Though her feet tremble from standing, in a different world she would be striding her way in avenues of society's chicest cities. She is wearing a simple and somewhat dated beige sweat pants and her nipples perk through her white plain tank top. But in a different world this woman would rock fuchsia colors and sophisticated patterned suits. There is a ring on her finger, the only remnant of a different life. The ring is a simple gold band. It shines in the light, just like the woman, even in her current state.
Breathing heavy, the woman begins taking her hands off her eyes. Her eyes are a blue color that seems to have gone bluer with the years, and they drop down like a woman who has seen some sorrow. But her crow's feet wrinkles reveal a woman who has also seen some joy. There is a scar near her lips, a chickenpox scar, perhaps. It adds texture to her otherwise symmetrical face. It adds mystery to an otherwise transparent figure of a woman in trouble, or perhaps a woman who has caused trouble.
She looks around her: no one in the distance. And the distance is wide: from this mountain one could see hundreds of miles of landscape and mountains.
Her mouth begins to falter, unsure whether it wants to cry or scream in rage. Her hand quickly covers it. If she could only hold it in place, maybe she would be in another place. Any place but this.
In her mind she already IS in another place: A memory appears of a hallway. Not an ordinary hallway, if there is such a thing as 'ordinary.' No, this hallway is not as royal as a palace but belongs likely to a wealthy establishment of some sorts. On the walls there are photos, but the memory blurs their faces. We move with this woman's memory, in this hallway, nearly sprinting through to the end of the hallway. Her heels clicking, we look down, the woman's feet are well pedicured in this memory, and she is wearing light summer heels. She breathes heavily, just as she hears a VOICE: Don't say any of this Margaret or the boys. I insist. She stops in her tracks. And we jump out of the memory as swiftly as we entered it. The woman on the mountain is shaking her head and mumbling: Margaret... Margaret... Maggie...No, Margaret... A tear falls from the woman's eye. It could be the sun or it could be the memory. She turns towards the door, looks at the darkness inside it, then turns to look back at the light of the sun. She turns again and enters the door.
In April 2020, while experiencing her first ever global pandemic, Tamar Pelzig pledged to write something every day, even if it's only a word, so she welcomed to the world a daily blog to keep her creative writing wheels rolling.
Header Art: Daniel Landerman