Along the Edge of the Fading Light

I pick up stuff. Things others left behind. Scarves, mittens, dollar bills, pens, rings. And I cannot describe what it feels like to carry these things around. A month ago, in a crowded bus, I was standing behind a girl with a gym bag, and I noticed her deodorant almost falling out. I slowly pulled it out. I used it every morning until it ran out.

A few days later, a woman left her lipstick next to the sink in a restroom. It was a beautiful shade of orange. Before, when I saw her smacking her lips and placing the makeup in her blind spot, I knew she’d forget. That’s the amazing thing. I know it will happen. Restrooms are the best places, there are no cameras. Usually, people go back to look for their things. I watch them from a distance. It’s disappointing they give up so quickly.

I work at a Walmart next to my apartment, greet people and bag groceries. Customers leave their things in the bagging area, next to the cash register, in the carts, sometimes on the floor. Especially the moms with little babies, old people, teenagers with plugged ears. I often brush past their fingers while taking cash, checks or giving out receipts. It feels like I have touched their being, if only for a moment. After my shift is over, I take a bus to a public library or a mall or a park.

I am a fan of Dostoevsky because his books are long and hard to put down. On weekends, I read them in the library next to the tall, elegant windows. It feels good to keep coming back to something.

On days I don’t want to draw attention to myself, I go home, head to my bedroom, and place all the picked stuff on my bed. A strange feeling takes over — a rush mixed with tightness like you know something others don’t. And what keeps me awake at night is this: when something/someone goes missing, no one cares after a while. The world goes on. Nothing changes.

A week ago, when I was roaming in a park, I saw a woman sitting with a package in her lap, her hands on top of it. A beige blouse and powder pink colored skirt. After a few minutes, she got up and left. And it didn’t look like she was moving away from the package but as if space was created between them. I walked toward the green and blue box. There was no rush or tightening this time. No sweaty palms. It bothered me.

At home, I pulled out a silk shawl and placed the box on it. It was full of sheer cream-colored envelopes. I could see the handwriting underneath, but not enough to read it, like light footsteps on snow. I opened the letters carefully, one by one, and ran my lips over the edge. Sharp, gummy taste. I even cut my lip, and a drop of blood settled on one envelope. For a while, I sat with folded A3 papers all around me: the promise of love, the security of dreams wrapped in unhurried happiness. I thought about my father, who left me and my mom when I was thirteen, my mom, who worked three jobs and died on her fortieth birthday, boyfriends who liked me because I was different but left because of the same reason. I felt the scar on my wrist, under a bracelet I picked up outside a bar. Then I kissed each letter, placed it back, and glued the envelope as if that had been the plan right from the start. And just for a moment, I felt I wasn’t beyond saving.

The next day, I took the package and placed it on the bench where I found it. I stood behind an oak not far from the bench. The air was salty, and I felt my pulse rocking against the warmth of it. As the evening progressed and darkness unraveled, I waited. No one came. On the way back, I waded through a light mist to get to the bus stop. The wind swept my hair from my face, and I watched the deserted sky between rows of dense clouds with jagged lines of light as a bridge between the past and the future. It started to rain when I got on the bus. Everyone was complaining about the traffic and the unexpected weather, but I was seeing something else entirely: the people I hadn’t touched, the pages I hadn’t flipped, the stuff I hadn’t picked up: all dancing along the edge of the fading light urgently calling out to me.

**Previously Published in Compose Journal