Miranda wasn’t dying. She was standing in the grocery store, in a long line filled with other people who were being multilingual and filling her head with confusion. But she was most certainly not dying.
She often reminded herself of this fact. It was a necessary day-to-day assertion. “I’m not dying, I’m not dying,” she would tell herself when she rolled over in the morning to turn off the Mickey Mouse alarm clock on her bedside table, stolen from her son’s room when he went off to college because it was so annoying that it actually got her up. “I’m not dying,” she would recite over the coffee maker, dancing from one foot to another on cold toes.
“Put slippers on!” Miranda’s mother used to yell – really yell, with spittle flying out of her mouth and veins coming to the fore of her face.
“I’m not dying,” Miranda reminded herself on the way to work and in the morning meeting and the noon meeting and the late lunch meeting and the dinner meeting. “I’m not dying.”
“You’ll catch cold and then where will you be?” her mother would ask. Miranda yearned to ask where indeed that would be, but it was many years before she worked up the courage. By then, her mother wasn’t a force to be reckoned with anymore, and it felt like a cheap, below the belt blow. There were better ways to get to her mother than this, she knew, but it made her mother smile to hear her daughter ask the question. “Dead,” she’d said in the nursing home. “That’s what I meant when you were a kid. You’d be dead. Kids die of colds all the time.”
Miranda stood in the grocery store line and listened to the Spanish and Greek and Russian streaming around her and knew she would never learn another language. One was hard enough for her to contend with. It wouldn’t help her to understand the chatter around her. The mothers were all probably telling their kids the same thing every mother tells her daughter. The men in big jerseys were probably talking about some game involving a ball.
“I’m not dying,” Miranda told herself every night before she went to sleep. She walked barefoot to her bed and tucked her feet into the coldest part of the mysterious temperatures found in crisp sheets and made beds. “I’m not.”
7 thoughts on “Not Dying”
Why do I find this so sad? It creates so many questions in the mind. Why is this ritual statement so important to her? Yes, she’s not dying, but is she really living? Will she be rescued and learn to live? I liked it and think it could be expanded. What do you think?
You now, I’m not sure why it becomes so sad either, but I agree that it’s become that.
I actually set out to write this piece as a complete flash fiction – but I guess I didn’t succeed! Or maybe I did? There’s always room to expand in short fiction, I feel. We don’t usually say that about published stories, I find, because we accept that someone made a decision and judged the story to be the “correct” length. But if it doesn’t feel complete to you, then maybe I need to rethink my approach to this piece!
I do like the piece as it is. Perhaps this exemplifies the age old problem of when to end a story. If you do re isit it, I’d love to read it.
It’s in your repetitive use of the phrase “I’m not dying” along with a portrayal of Miranda in a way that all readers can connect – that’s brought about this wonderful pathos. Nice little piece of flash fiction 🙂
Thank you so much! That’s what I was going for :).
Beautiful! I liked your style of writing.
Thank you so much!