Yellow Ribbons by Johanna Harper
Even with the door firmly closed, Barbara can hear his snore,
a rumbling tank of a noise. Did he snore before? Unable to remember. Perhaps
if he did I found it endearing, comforting to have the slumbering sound of
my husband in bed beside me.
How naïve, she thinks, I was.
Darkness walls the house in, the windows stark mirrors tossing back her flat
reflection. She toys with strands of hair, prematurely gray. Attempts to tame
them with spit on fingertips. They stand up rebelliously the moment she pulls
her hand away, like Tommy’s cowlick. She regrets his inheriting her wayward
hair.
Barbara pulls the afghan tighter around her, taking comfort in her mother’s
smell she swears is woven into the ordered knots. She keeps surprising herself
with that loss, as if coming around the corner to find her home burned to the
ground. Foolish to feel orphaned at 26, she sighs, but to be someone’s
daughter again…
She wants to cry into the afghan and get it over with, have one dramatic moment,
so stereotypically feminine and self-indulgent; but she can feel nothing beyond
the solid numbness that David brought back with him. It’s only been six
months, she reminds herself, stroking the side of her face, the ghost of her
husband’s hand in her touch. He’ll snap out of it.
The night before David shipped out he’d been like a child. Held her
from behind so she couldn’t see him crying; slid into her cautiously,
came with a quiet gasp. Neither one of them spoke, nestled together, nothing
to put them asunder. She’d fallen asleep surrounded by warmth. In the
morning he was gone, showered dressed and pressed. Morning sun glinting off
buttons. How proud she’d felt at that moment, seeing him stand there,
part of something bigger than them.
What changed?
She shakes the doubt from her head, listens to the silky whisper of yellow
ribbons on the trees outside. There were three families on her block with people “over
there”. Mrs. McGrath the do-gooder organized the neighborhood to show
their support. Even got the kids involved in stringing up the trees with hundreds
of feet of bright yellow ribbon. There was a carnival feel in the air that
summer afternoon, everyone so proud of themselves and their commitment. Mrs.
McGrath smiling with dentures too big for her mouth.
Barbara hated watching the ribbons fall limp and weather-faded; the color
of weak tea. Too many reminders. She drowns in might have beens; gasps for
breath, blinking at the startled face in the mirrored window. What’s
wrong with you?
Nothing.
She stands, naked feet on cold floor, afghan puddles behind her. She commits
to taking one of David’s sleeping pills to get through the night, prepare
herself for Thanksgiving, the families joining together, thankful to have one
of their own return. I am thankful, so thankful. Cold down her neck, fear for
her son.
Barbara swipes wet from her cheeks, sets her eyes on the bedroom door. Moves
to it like swimming. Hand on the doorknob, the sound of her husband rattling
inside. Smiles hard. Glad he’s home. We’re all so happy. Opens
the door. Steps into the darkness.
Johanna Harper
Johanna Harper is twenty-three and lives in Virginia. She is a recent college
graduate and has no idea what to do with her life besides wall herself in
and write. This is her first publication.
