A Cloud From the Lips

Nicholas Muszynski

I recently purchased an old diary from a garage sale. A young married couple had moved into the home and the wife wanted to sell her parents’ old stuff. I’ve lived in the neighborhood for three years now and had on sparse occasions seen an elderly woman cultivating a modest flower garden. I only learned of her death by way of the garage sale.

The diary had a faded leather cover that at one time may have appeared as intense scarlet, now looking like an eroded brick wall. In the top right corner: the year 1986 in blocky gold lettering. I flipped to a random page and found it blank except for the date printed at the top.

I purchased the artifact for three dollars, supposing it would make an aesthetically pleasant addition to my shelf. And there it sat for some days until, on a whim, I opened it once more. I conceived of an idea to fill it myself, rewrite the present into becoming 1986, a transgression of linear time, a far-fetched homecoming.

Yet behind the cover I found a note that I had previously missed, “For J—.”^[1] The first couple of pages had been filled, presumably by J. Reading the entries uncovered not the life of J. himself, but a narrative of someone else. I could not, and unfortunately cannot, speak on the truth of this narrative.

I at once contacted the family I had purchased the diary from, and they shared my surprise and eventually my intrigue at the diary’s contents. The wife expanded on the unknown author, J., personal details which I choose to withhold.

Rather than allow this narrative to fade away to time, I decided to transcribe the diary’s contents, after receiving the family’s permission. This story is not a professional work, it does not adhere to the guidelines of the literary industry and has not been ground through the processes of endless revision. The following story is authentic. Truer to J. than any diary.

For J—,

Happy New Year!

We’re all praying for a speedy recovery!^[2]

January 1st^[3]

Jacob rubs his hands together. Cupped palms float in front of his lips. His lips are cracked and crusted with dried blood, he has a habit of biting the thin skin off his lips, and they tremble delicately as he exhales. A cloud of vapor rises from his chest and washes over his hands.

The tree has not yet lit. Jacob checks his watch, 11:48. It’s too late. Twelve minutes to go before the calendar flips. This isn’t a special event, really. The town didn’t even spend money on a ball to drop. They’re doing what they do every year, light a Christmas tree to celebrate the new year. It’s twenty feet tall, far from impressive. The town had lit that same tree a couple of weeks ago as a dull attempt to mimic the one at Rockefeller Center. This tiny thing, even when lit, pales in comparison.

Why bother at all? Take this tree down now before it embarrasses itself. Let it find peace in the darkness, not everything has to shine. Nor should everything want to shine. This tiny tree will put itself out there, and be terribly late to the party. As the crowd piled into the city right over the horizon hollers and dances for a ball descending from up above, a moon gifted by the night sky, this tree will flicker like the final moments of a distant, dying star. Those few who witness that sight will clap politely. That’s it. This tree, no matter how hard it tries, will never shine bright enough to gather a crowd. And it won’t inspire the men and women to grab those they love, pull them close, and dance in a circle. Couples dancing, laughing, warming each other up under the tree’s splendor. Of course, this dance ends in a kiss.

Jacob shoves his hands into his coat pockets. He thinks to stand up and walk away. But

January 2nd^[4]

he can’t tear himself away from this cold bench in a park of dead trees. 11:49. Not much time has passed. Maybe it’s not too late, but it unfortunately is. Still, Jacob stays.

A little boy holds his hands up above his head. Holding the boy’s left hand is Mr. Lombardi, the bank clerk, and holding the right is Mrs. Natasha Lombardi, Jacob’s old third grade teacher. Jacob didn’t know they had a son. Their son hops up and off the grass, he tucks his knees into his stomach and kicks his feet as they hover in the air. There’s no doubt he enjoys this weightlessness. The Lombardi’s look to their son, kept up by their joint support, and then to each other. Mr. Lombardi says something and the two smile Their son slams his feet to the ground and crosses his arms The parents don’t grimace or shout, instead they laugh.^[5]

The boy can’t be older than five. Jacob can’t remember much from when he was that age. His mother talks about how he tried flooding their home at five years old. How he stuffed rags down every drain and let the water spill from bathtubs and sinks. She says he wanted a pool so badly that he decided to make their whole house one. His father simply shrugs and says he was like any other kid, whiny and disobedient. All Jacob really cares to remember from that time was his dream of becoming an astronaut. He was three when man first touched the moon. It seemed so easy and the moon’s barren landscape sparked his imagination. What lays hidden in those dark spots on the surface, what’s under that surface? He thought the moon waited for him, convinced of the inevitability of their meeting. Now, he can’t imagine handling the isolation and the surrounding darkness. If their encounter is truly inevitable, he fears for the day it arrives.

January 3rd^[6]

11:52. Not a chance. Not anymore.

“Honey, look it’s Mr. and Mrs. Lombardi,” Mrs. Moore, the elderly co-owner of a used bookstore, says to her husband.

“Yes. I heard they were itchin’ for a divorce. Shame, I ‘spose he’s still tied down.”

“Oh stop,” she playfully slaps her husband’s shoulder, “each day I wonder why I don’t save myself and run far, far away from you. Why, I could flee to the Caribbean and free myself of this awful cold forever. Oh, why on Earth am I still here?”

“Surely, it’s my good looks. Certainly ain’t my charm.”

“No, no, you’re still as charming as the day we met. As for as good looking, well.”

The elderly couple holds hands as they walk past Jacob’s bench. Soon they’re out of earshot, drowned out by the voices of those younger who too await the tree’s lighting. The Moores own and run Moore and Moore Books by themselves. They have no children to take over the shop, but they’ve never seemed to mind, at least that’s what Jacob’s mother told him. But they must find themselves uncomfortable from time to time. They have to wonder what will become of their store, that comfy hovel on the corner of 19th and Lincoln.

11:53. Do they not fear each passing day?^[7]

Some years back, Jacob would check their shelves semi-regularly. Typically, he’d read the blurbs on the backs of fiction when the title caught his eye. Rarely did he purchase a book. Still, the Moores never seemed to mind. He’d talk to them for upwards of an hour, sometimes about books, often about something else. When he joined his high school track team,

January 4th^[8]

he suddenly stopped visiting. He didn’t even stay on the track team for longer than two months. He might have time to stop by tomorrow.

A snowball splinters on the forehead of a rowdy teen. The rowdy one rushes his assailant, tackling him to the ground. The two boys wrestle in the snow [for a]^[9] moment, the one who threw the projectile managing to clamber on top of the other. A third teen comes out of nowhere and pelts the one on top with another snowball. A snow flinging showdown proceeds to ensue between the three boys.

They can’t be that much younger than Jacob. Hell, they might be his age. [Despite this], he feels such a large distance between himself and that crew that they might as well have alien origins.

Before long an adult man and woman walk up to them. They’re being loud enough to attract the attention of everyone around the tiny tree. Just when it seems like the adults will put an end to their chaos, the woman hurls a snowball at one of the boy’s stomachs. Soon, the three teens and two adults are engaged in a generational snowball war.

Both sides receive reinforcements. More teens join than adults, but that does not deter their opponents. Even Mr. Moore moves to join the battle, but Mrs. Moore grabs his arm. There will be no elderly combatants on this day.

11:56. Four minutes [left].

The snowball fight has ended. No clear winner is decided. A truce then, it seems, founded on mutual exhaustion. Peace returns as if the fighting never [happened. It] shouldn’t be that easy.

January 5th^[10]

Quiet re-enters a lively scene [too] easily. All that play and life gone [in a moment].

The cold nips at his cheeks and chin. What he’s [waiting] for what he’s been waiting for won’t happen. The [whole] reason for him being here for enduring the sorry sight of this [tiny] tree won’t come to pass. Why then why does he not get up and leave? What keeps him stuck to this icy bench surrounded by leafless trees their branches reaching for a sun that isn’t in the sky? It’s not that [damn worthless] tree.

The cold hits his upper lip. He can’t imagine why he made the attempt in the first place. This isn’t worth the trouble. Even if it did happen [even] if he didn’t have to watch that bullshit tree light up [by himself] it wouldn’t matter. What good is it? That brief moment of light before the inevitable return to [darkness].^[11]

11:57. Its tears. And snot. Thats why his face feels [so cold].

Two women run up beside Jacob one in a red coat and the other in a green one. They take a moment to catch their breath before strolling towards the tree.

Did your family finish their garland in time? the woman [in red asks] her companion.

Thank goodness we did look at how beautiful the tree looks this year! It doesnt look any different from past years.

Youre right! I bet it was your fathers touch on the garland that made it so.

The woman in green slows [her pace]. I wish he could leave the house to see it himself.

The tree is covered in homemade garlands. Every year each family in the town makes

January 6th^[12]

one. At least each family is meant to make one Jacobs never joined in.

Mr. Lombardis son is sitting on top of his shoulders. The young boy outstretches [his tiny fingers and] rapidly taps on a garland. Mrs. Lombardi nods. Jacobs parents only took him to watch the tree [be lit] once. That time it was for Christmas not New Years. Jacob was only three. He doesnt remember it at all. He could only guess as to why they never returned. Perhaps they too [hate the sight of the tiny] tree.

11:58 Yet Jacob chose to sit here To wait for the tree to light up He tried telling himself he was Waiting for something else but he knew it wouldnt happen a while ago It was too late Ten minutes ago it is too late now He has nothing else to wait for except the tree he ridiculed and abused to Finally shine once more^[13]

Secluded from the others the Moores hold each other closely They rock side to side to the rhythm of imaginary music Its slow music very slow Far slower than the music playing in the nearby city [no doubt] They arent hollering or laughing Mrs Moore quietly has her head resting against her old husbands shoulder Their eyes are closed as they spin [calmly] Underneath the vast shadow of that tiny tree

The Lombardis son has returned to Earth once again and Looks up at the tree ten times larger than himself His parents stand [in silence not] looking [at the tree but at their son]

Even the rowdy teenage boys are Sitting on the snow Waiting for the tree to light up

Jacob forgets The cold air He watches the tree The moon floating behind it Soon the tree [will shine Not as] brightly as the Moon not even as bright as a distant Star but it will Shine

January 7th^[14]

Whether hes there to witness it or not the Tree will turn on It has turned on every year despite his Absence after all Yet this time He will witness it

11:59. Jacob isn’t breathing. His body refuses to let this breath out before midnight comes. Each breath, after all, lets out a part of the self, of the body and the soul. Tragically, we all must breathe to live. We use our breath to talk, to run, to dance, and it slowly deprives us of ourselves. And so, surrounded by the cheery townspeople he’s lived around his whole life, Jacob holds this breath. The air doesn’t sit waiting in his lungs like it should, instead, it swirls inside his heart keeping it warm. A heart warm enough to beat for at least a moment more.

12:00.^[15]

January 8th^[16]

^[1] The boy’s name is censored at the family’s request.

^[2] Even after questioning the family, whoever wrote this note and presumably gifted J. this diary is unknown.

^[3] While each page is dated in the diary, these dates do not indicate when these pages were written. J. likely never intended for the dates to be included in the story, yet I added them here to ensure authentic replication of the original document.

^[4] I fear I was not entirely forthcoming concerning my reasoning for including the dates at the top. They are, for all intents and purposes, not a part of the story. In fact, they may even serve to hinder J.’s story, needlessly drawing attention away from the boy’s prose. Be that as it may, I chose for them to remain in the name of authenticity.

^[5] The missing end punctuation for these few sentences are from the original. Furthermore, all spelling and grammar mistakes in the original are preserved here. Despite the narrative of perfection that professionals propagate, all writing is riddled with these. Small pinpricks of human error on the page, wounds easily covered and forgotten.

^[6] On January 3rd of this year, I released a book titled Herald: Lewis Arensky’s Poetic Tale. In it, I discussed the life and work of 19th-century American poet, Lewis Arensky, best known for “Suddenly I Look Up.” I doubt you’ve heard of him. I know you haven’t. He wasn’t read during his time and he’s not now. Truthfully, his poetry is nothing special. It sorely lacks wit and imagination. Nevertheless, I decided to write a book on him after reading a line from the aforementioned poem and becoming entranced, “I swallow the atmosphere. It’s a lonely droplet of rain, a fading puff of smoke.” In retrospect, I don’t know what came over me. It’s nonsense masquerading as poetry, a worthless attempt to grasp meaning.

Three people have read the book, not including myself. They’re all colleagues of mine, and likely the only other people to have read Arensky’s work.

^[7] This question is in darker ink than the rest of the page. Written with a heavier hand, I suspect. My own hands tense up as I read this line from the diary itself. This transcription doesn’t have that effect. J.’s diary is on my desk beside my computer. As I write this, I can’t bring myself to look at the wobbling words. Sometimes, in the corner of my eye, I see the words shake ever so slightly. I know it’s a simple trick of the mind, a side-effect of periphery vision and imperfect lettering. Yet I feel my heart drop when it happens, as if the words will crumble to dust and I’ll lose them for good. It’s not an entirely unpleasant feeling. It’s like holding water in your cupped palms. Gently lifting it to your lips for a drink, careful to not let a single cool drop seep through the cracks, but no matter how hard you press your palms together a little bit will escape you. When I look at my screen, the lights mimicking letters but not a perfect facsimile in its mechanical perfection of an art form that is imperfect, and if you disagree then I beg you to pick up a pen and grip it tight and watch as your hand trembles ever so slightly without your wanting it to and then look at this text you are reading right now, the text I am also reading, and see what I see. I see an empty page paradoxically full of text.

^[8] I burnt my manuscript the day after my book’s release as if it were an ingrown wart. I had to rid myself of it. It grew from me, I can’t deny that. But like a fleshy bump, it did nothing but eat away at me, growing rounder and fatter as I let it remain. No, I fed it and I didn’t realize what it was doing to me, would do to me. For two years it grew and festered and ate away at me. In the end, all I had to show was a putrid mass. So I burnt it. I tossed it into the garbage can, poured lighter fluid on it, and struck a match. The manuscript’s all ash and smoke. But the published book still remains and so does the time I wasted. Time like a forever empty page, a missed opportunity.

^[9] The handwriting has suddenly deteriorated in readability. Here the words are illegible. I’ve tried and tried to understand each and every word of this story, transcribe J.’s story exactly as he wrote it. I can’t lose this boy’s story. It deserves to be read and its meaning fully realized. But I have to wonder, who will read this? My three colleagues and no one else? Despite this, I have to press on. I’ve decided to leave these parts blank where I can’t understand the original text. If I’m being honest, there have been illegible segments even before this moment. In those times I made my best guess as to what would make most sense for the story. It felt blasphemous to leave the story patchy and unfinished, as if I were defiling J.’s story. And then the more I read and reread it, I felt drawn to the gaps in the text, expressions of J.’s mind that haven’t reached mine. Their meaning has been lost to time. I can’t erase that by filling it. Funny, erasure through creation. I think it’s funny anyway. Maybe you don’t. Unless you’re a creator, like me. If you are, then I think you’ll find this funny too.

^[10] If I wanted to make an authentic replication of this diary, then I would’ve taken photos. Then you could see for yourself how J.’s handwriting loses shape. You’ll then imagine how weak and tired the hand must’ve been that wrote it. You’ll remember that that hand’s bone and sinews connected to an arm, to a chest with a heart fighting for survival, to a brain also equally as tired as the hand, to a person, and to a soul, if you’re religiously inclined. The blank spaces where words should be, you’ll see them for what they truly are: erratic lines and curves that merely suggest form. You might find yourself capable of tracing the movements that made them. Maybe you’ll recognize them as the motions of a conductor or a painter but never a writer. You’ll feel ashamed at the thought. J. was a writer you’ll tell yourself, as if he heard your thought and was hurt by it. He wrote, but not as other writers do. There’s a reason we don’t copy books with a shaky hand and publish them. Instead, we have machines create perfectly legible transcriptions of our thoughts. You’ll then wonder at the authenticity of such a transcription, ask yourself if our thoughts can ever be transcribed. But you aren’t looking at a photo of the diary, you’re reading a transcription. You have to settle for a simple blank space.

^[11] This sentence reminded me of an unfinished and unnamed poem by Lewis Arensky. I can’t find the poem recorded anywhere, but I’m confident I’ve read it. It’s a shame, really, I thought it was good. But what do I know, no one thought it was good enough to include it in a collection or record it on the internet. Arensky didn’t even think it was good enough to finish. I’ve done my best to remember what I can from the poem.

I would often go there to sit in the mist there,

I would often dream there of a light radiant.

I met not the darkness of slumber but its counter,

I met that which fades away not what remains eternal.

I can only manage to remember the first four lines. Even then, I’m not so sure this is how they went. What purpose does the mist serve? It doesn’t fit into the overall narrative of light and darkness. Perhaps Arensky had an unfulfilled plan for it, potential meanings only he could dream up. Or perhaps it had been something the speaker “missed” and I’ve simply misremembered the line.

^[12] I know I’m nothing more than an obstacle to J.’s story. You don’t want to hear about Lewis Arensky or my thoughts on Lewis Arensky or my thoughts on my book full of my thoughts on Lewis Arensky.

^[13] It’s impossible to tell if the lack of punctuation entirely is an intentional choice by J. or not. The day before I chose to open this diary again, before I saw the story hidden within, I went to see my mother. I stopped by the front desk to let them know I came to visit. By then it became a technicality more than anything. I knew where room 217 was. I brought her three pink tulips that I had purchased from the grocery store. They were fake, I always brought her fake flowers. I was afraid the real ones would wilt, and wilting flowers in a hospital room never sat well with me. She was lying in bed with the curtains drawn, and the light made the white sheets appear so bright that it hurt. She turned to me, her blue-grey eyes lighter in the morning sun. A soft smile came upon her face, the kind of smile someone gives a lost child hoping to comfort them. I knew what was going on, that the day I waited for had come. She asked who I was, if I was a nurse or a doctor or something. I don’t remember it exactly. I placed the flowers beside the bed and left the room. I stood there, my back towards the door for some time. I don’t know how long. My memory is as patchy as this diary. My mind isn’t as composed as these words are. This typing doesn’t represent my thoughts. These thoughts that you will never really read are more like the disjointed, scribbled words in this diary.

^[14] When I stood there after leaving my mother’s room, I had a memory. It was Christmas, I was only two years old. My mother wore a homemade red and green sweater with a chubby reindeer on it. One of its antlers was bigger than the other. My father wore a similar-looking sweater but with an elf. That elf’s neck was way too long and thin, he looked like his head might snap off from a light breeze. My mother made both sweaters by hand and the mistakes on both of them were hers too. They didn’t seem to mind the imperfections. I sat on the wood floor, holding a small wrapped box in my hand. My parents sat with me, my mother tapping the box and my father guiding my hand toward it, encouraging me to tear away the wrapping paper. I soon caught on and scratched at the box with tiny nails. The paper ripped and my mother cheered for me, giving me the courage to finish the job. With time, I uncovered the box and found something that I can’t remember. Standing in that hospital, I wanted to slap myself for forgetting. The problem is, I didn’t forget anything. That memory from when I was two was not a memory of mine at all, it couldn’t have been. I never met my father. He and my mother separated before my birth. It was a fabrication of the past. But I can’t deny the comfort it brought me. It’s not my past, it’s not even a past, yet it felt real. It was a present creation of mine. I wonder, is it more appropriate to think of memory as a product of the present, not the past?

Here’s a true memory, at least as true a memory as one can get. All the way back in high school I had to write a poem for English class. It scared me. I understood it wasn’t a big deal, that if I followed the structure and threw in a couple of poetic devices, then I’d receive an A. But to me, this was an opportunity for authenticity. I needed to put myself out there, all of myself. I had the urge to create something wholly me, to find out who I was. My mind was, and perhaps still is, an impenetrable mess even to myself. I wanted a tangible record of my mind, proof of my thinking and feeling soul. So many great writers and poets had done just that, transcribed their minds on the page. At least, that’s what I thought they had done, but now I’m not so sure. Anyway, I tried writing my poem. I gripped my pen and hovered over the blank page. I readied myself for all those jumbled thoughts and confused emotions to spill onto the page in a cascade of ink and instead of making a stain it would’ve made art. I wrote a single line and nothing more. After all that thinking and longing, I managed one line and a blank page. I threw the page away and didn’t finish the assignment. I forgot that line soon after.

^[15] From a page rotting atop the refuse, molding in the rain, yellowing with every sunrise, a forgotten message rediscovered, a gift from one writer to another,

For J.

“A cloud from the lips, words gone in a breath.”

^[16] Aside from the dates at the top, the remaining pages of the diary are completely blank.