Wrapping
Sara wraps flowers in bandages. Has been doing it for weeks now. Buys the flowers from the bodega. Buys the bandages from the pharmacy. Wraps them at her kitchen table.
She's forty-two. Lives in the Bronx. Works data entry from home.
The flowers are cheap. Starting to wilt. She wraps them anyway. Gauze bandages. White. Around the stems. Around the petals. Tight then loose. Binding then releasing.
Her daughter visits. Says: "Mom, what are you doing?"
"Wrapping flowers."
"I can see that. Why?"
"Don't know."
The daughter looks at all the wrapped flowers. On the counter. On the table. In vases. All bound in white gauze. All dying slowly inside their bandages.
"This is weird."
"Yeah."
"You should stop."
"Maybe."
Doesn't stop though. Just keeps wrapping.
Started after her mother's surgery. Watched the nurses wrap her mother's incision. The way they bound it. Tight. Careful. Like they were trying to hold something together that wanted to come apart.
Her mother died anyway. Three months later. Infection.
Sara started wrapping flowers the day after the funeral.
Her therapist asks about it. Sara says it's calming.
"What does it mean?"
"Nothing. It's just wrapping."
"Why flowers?"
"They're cheap."
The therapist writes something.
Sara goes home. Wraps more flowers. Red carnations this time. Wraps them until they're almost invisible under the gauze.
Good.
Her sister calls. Heard about the flowers. Asks if Sara's okay.
"I'm fine."
"You're wrapping dead flowers in bandages."
"They're not dead. Just dying."
"That's not better."
They argue. Sara hangs up. Wraps more flowers.
Her apartment smells like dying flowers and antiseptic. The gauze has a smell. Hospital smell. She's gotten used to it.
Her daughter comes back. Brings groceries. Sees more wrapped flowers.
"Mom, this is getting worse."
"What's getting worse?"
"This. All of this."
Sara doesn't respond. Just unwraps one flower. It's brown. Dead. She throws it away. Wraps a new one.
Her daughter watches. Doesn't say anything else. Just puts the groceries away. Leaves.
Sara keeps wrapping.
Her neighbor knocks. Complains about the smell. Sara says sorry. Doesn't stop though.
Just opens windows. Keeps wrapping.
Roses this time. Pink. Wraps them tight. So tight the petals crush. She loosens it. Wraps again. Gentler.
Better.
Her mother used to wrap everything. Leftovers. Gifts. Bandages on Sara's knees when she fell. Always wrapping. Always binding. Always trying to keep things from falling apart.
Didn't work though. Things fell apart anyway.
Sara wraps another flower. Daisies. White. Wraps them until they're just white on white. Flower and bandage indistinguishable.
Perfect.
Her friend visits. Sees the wrapped flowers. Doesn't comment. Just helps Sara wrap more.
They work in silence. Flower. Bandage. Wrap. Tight. Loose. Tight again.
"You doing okay?" friend asks.
"No."
"Want to talk about it?"
"No."
They keep wrapping.
After friend leaves, Sara looks at all the wrapped flowers. Dozens now. All dying inside their bindings. All held together by gauze that won't save them.
Just like her mother. Wrapped in bandages that didn't help. Bound tight but still falling apart.
Sara wraps another flower. Doesn't know what kind. Doesn't matter. Just wraps it.
---
In Portland, Marcus cuts up books. Old ones. Garage sale finds. Nobody wants them. He cuts them into strips. Ties beads to them. Hangs them.
He's fifty-nine. Librarian. Divorced.
His coworker asks why he's destroying books.
"They're already destroyed. Nobody's reading them."
"Still seems wrong."
"Maybe."
He cuts another page. Adds beads. Bone-colored. Like prayer beads. Ties them on. Hangs the strip.
His apartment is full of them now. Book strips. Beaded. Hanging from every surface. Moving when he walks.
Started after his daughter stopped talking to him. Something he said. Something he didn't say. He can't remember. She won't tell him.
Started cutting up books the day after. Taking words apart. Making them into something else. Something she couldn't read. Couldn't hold against him.
His therapist asks if he's angry.
"No."
"The books suggest anger."
"They're just books."
"They're destroyed books."
"They're transformed books."
The therapist doesn't look convinced.
Marcus goes home. Cuts more books. Poetry. Fiction. Old encyclopedias. Cuts them all. Adds beads. Hangs them.
His ex-wife visits. Needs to pick up mail. Sees the book strips.
"Marcus, what happened?"
"Nothing."
"You're cutting up books."
"Yeah."
"You're a librarian."
"I know."
She leaves. Probably thinks he's lost it.
Maybe he has.
Doesn't stop though. Just keeps cutting. More books. More beads. More strips hanging.
His daughter texts. First time in months. Says: "Dad, are you okay?"
He types: "Fine." Deletes it. Types: "No." Deletes it. Types: "I'm cutting up books and it's helping somehow." Sends it.
She doesn't respond.
He cuts more books. Religious texts now. Ties them with beads. Makes them into rosaries that say nothing. Words broken into letters into nothing.
Good.
His friend stops by. Sees all the strips. Asks what they mean.
"Nothing. They're just strips."
"They must mean something."
"Why?"
"Because you made them."
Marcus thinks about this. Maybe they do mean something. Maybe they mean everything's falling apart and he's just trying to make something from the pieces.
Doesn't say that though. Just says: "They're pretty."
Friend nods. Leaves.
Marcus cuts more books. Adds more beads. Hangs more strips.
The apartment is getting hard to walk through. Strips everywhere. Words everywhere. All broken. All transformed. All hanging.
His daughter texts again: "Can we talk?"
He types: "Yes." Sends it.
She doesn't text back.
He cuts another book. Classic literature. Something everyone's supposed to love. Cuts it into strips. Adds beads. Hangs it.
Nobody can read it now. Nobody can judge him for not reading it. It's just strips. Just material. Just something taking up space.
Good.
Sara wraps. Marcus cuts. They don't know each other. Never will.
Just keep doing what they're doing.
Flowers dying inside bandages. Books broken into strips.
Both trying to hold something. Both failing. Both doing it anyway.
That's about it.
That's what's happening.
