“Many Celtic Christian places of prayer and worship are 'thin places' of deep peace and angelic protection, where the veil between heaven and earth is thin. I search for those places in the footsteps of ancient saints and listen to the spirit of God.”
Amanda Young BA Art and Design Practise, currently studying MA Illustration. Her work aims to make an emotional connection with the viewer, giving them a sense of time and a place. Instagram: @amandayoungart
In Death as in Life Fiction by Fiona McKay
CW: Mental Health & Death
I picture my younger self grazing along this wall, lurching, as though grief had broken my knees. A white coffin tucked under my arm. Alone. I run the image over and over. This place; that day.
The thud of a spade slicing dirt brings me back to myself.
***
I am still lagging from the journey that brought me here. We have been standing for a long time, wearing black in this dull heat. My feet expanded on the plane, filling out my pumps, flesh overflowing leather, leather biting flesh. My mother making me uncomfortable, even after death.
***
Our last conversation was months ago. ‘You were a mistake,’ she told me, fingers clutching at the thin blue hospital blanket. ‘We didn’t have the options back then though.’ My brother gaped across the hospital bed. ‘Make sure you don’t let yourself get pregnant again, I don’t need any grand-mistakes.’ After, the meds kicked in; her head sliding to one side on the pillow, mouth spilling thin, sour drool but no words. After, my brother held my elbow gently in his hand as we sucked down terrible coffee in the bleak family room. ‘You never told me she was like this to you,’ he said. I had, but he hadn’t believed in her private bile. ‘You shouldn’t let her speak to you like that.’ But he had said nothing to her. After, I transform into grey rock: obsidian-smooth, though shattering easily.
***
I missed the end, my brother a lonely proxy. He says he understands. I try to match my face to the occasion as we fill out forms and phone the funeral directors. But freedom keeps bursting through. And happiness. I don’t interrogate my feelings.
***
The last spadefuls of dirt hit the wooden lid and I take off my mourning mask.
I think back to the shattered girl I had been. The sun had cracked open the sky, poured a transfusion of light onto my young, ruined face as I paused at the graveside, the small box cradled in my arms, unwilling to let go. For her, I grieve. But I clutch my swollen belly and breathe in peace.
Fiona McKay is the author of The Top Road, AdHoc Fiction (2023), and Drawn and Quartered, Alien Buddha Press (2023). Words in Bath Flash, Janus Literary, Lost Balloon, Gone Lawn, New Flash Fiction Review, Pithead Chapel, The Forge and others. She lives in Dublin, Ireland. X: @fionaemckayryan