"What Doesn’t Kill You" & "Polyphony" by Erica Wheadon
- Roi Fainéant
- 4 days ago
- 3 min read
What Doesn’t Kill You
The mulberry leaves have faded to a papery yellow, again. We’ve almost lost this plant twice—rescuing it from dehydration (Have you watered it? No, I thought you had?), only to see it washed out in the Summer storms. I’ve been feeding it diluted nutrients slowly, slowly, until its pale veins coursed with green, and its foliage softened and flushed with colour. Looking closer, I see tiny buds sprouting from the stalks. I rub a leaf between my fingers—glossier than last week at least. I breathe, for the first time in months.
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The day our eldest dog died, the snapdragon plant near her kennel produced one perfect flower—pink and red, vivid with grief. It took weeks for the flower to fall off, but once it did, the plant began to wither, and a brown death crept over it. One by one, its leaves turned to gold, until only a stump remained. Each time we tell that story, it blooms all over again.
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Survive, from Latin supervivere “to live beyond,” to get through, to make it past, hold on, keep upright, Sanskrit jīvati “to live,” to keep moving, Old English lifian “to remain, continue,” to comprehend, to hurt, to heal.
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Our youngest dog lies in his dead sister’s kennel, paws curled. He yips softly, eyes dull and dark. At ten-to-six, the motorway traffic crescendos up the mountain. I open the door and he trots inside, pressing his full weight against me. I know, I know.
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My husband and I are standing outside, barefoot in early Autumn. The dog’s head is under the couch, fishing for a ball. We survey the patio, catalogue each herb and flower. I moved the lemon balm into a new corner. The rosemary is doing well. So is the fern, shooting lettuce-like leaves from its roots. A bright fan of rescued lilies has also bloomed overnight in shocking orange. I slip my hand into his and point to the mulberry. Look, new growth.
Polyphony
All I can hear is everything. Baked-on rice scraped off the pan with a fingernail, the water running, next door’s car pulling into the driveway, one car door closes, then another, slick tyres on the road, the stickiness of wet paws on the floor, the lap of water against snout, hair creeping out of its black band, settling around my ears. I think about what I can reach for faster, my loops or my earphones, wanting to suction something into my canals to muffle the sharp edges of every sound, but I also don’t want to be dramatic. Instead I am rooted to the kitchen floor. I want to say something but I can’t hear myself through the cacophony and so I wait for the car to be exited, for the water to be lapped, the tap stilled. He touches my arm and I watch it jolt, his lips are against my cheek and I flinch, then feel bad, say, its not you. He nods, withdraws. Cold air slices through the crack in the door and I can feel damp cotton sweat against my ribs. The tap is running again, he is washing out the debris in the sink. I start to speak then stop. What, he says. I shake my head, over and over again. I can’t stop listening. The watch haptic buzzes against my wrist bone. Breathe, says the pulsing quiet.