The Glacier
Issue Two
Winter 2023

The Cloud Beaters

It was a winter’s noon, ice-cold and sunny, when I saw in a single bare tree a hundred or more birds flitting in and out of the branches, lunching on withered berries. The sun hit the breasts of the birds and they all shone like hammered gold. I described this event to my friend and she asked what kind of birds they were.  But I could not remember the name of the birds, the word had receded to a space in my mind I could not reach. “Cloud-beaters” came out of my mouth—where that word came from I’ll never know, it may be it came from the same place the forgotten word lived. “Oh, cedar waxwings!” she cried. I had struggled, I had tried, I had come as close as I could, I didn’t have the words, but she knew what I meant.

My Dying Friend

I was visiting a dying friend in the hospital and passed by a room full of babies who had not yet been given names.  They were all lined up in a row, like science projects.  Those with names had won a bracelet and been taken away. But those who remained were quite interesting, judging by the sadness already evident in their features.  What do I call thee, little lamb lying here on a bed of cotton?  I stopped someone in a uniform who was familiar with them.  “Come back tomorrow,” she said, “they will all be gone.”

The Photograph

I have a photograph that was taken more than a hundred years ago.  I am related to its subject but don’t know who she is, I don’t know if I am related to her through my mother or through my father, they hadn’t been born when the photograph was taken and they are dead now.  I don’t know where the picture was taken except on the porch steps of an old wooden house, and I stare at her who is sitting on the steps, about thirty with dark hair, looking like no one I know, almost expressionless before the camera, I stare at her and it looks like she is looking at me but I know she hasn’t a clue that she is looking at me, she looks right through me, she is looking at her photographer, and I think I see a strand of hair about to fall over one eye, maybe she is thinking about that, I don’t know, but there is a deep abiding bond between us, I feel it, even if she doesn’t know my mother’s name or my father’s name, if they lived past infancy or at all.  We are both alive, she in the picture and me with the picture in my hands, and we both know nothing of the other—perhaps that is the bond between us, though she is certainly not thinking about the future, she is waiting for the future, she is waiting for the small unmistakable sound of the shutter, the click of the camera signifying that something is over, and I do not think we can be any more specific than that, so I blink and let that be the sign between us.

Lucky Dragon

God walked into the Lucky Dragon and, in a tired, half-dead voice, ordered a Shanghai spring roll, wonton soup, steamed dumplings, chicken fried rice, egg Foo Young, Moo Shu pork, sweet and sour shrimp, and General Tso’s chicken.  He loved everything, he ate everything, but the twelve fortune cookies that came after he did not care for, so he folded them carefully into the dough of a dozen unborn children, hoping for the best.  While the staff watched in horror from the kitchen door, God walked out slowly, absolutely full, unable to fly.

What Happens When You Die

As it happens, I travel a lot, therefore I am in a good position to know what happens when you die.  When you die, a plane takes off, another plane lands, people of all ages travel rapidly forward on the moving sidewalk between terminals.  A traveler between connections stops at a kiosk and buys a damp turkey sandwich, another one buys a fruit smoothie and still another, weary but with more time, stops for a beer at the airport bar. A man in the gift shop buys a box of molasses candy for his wife, while a woman he thinks attractive picks up a plastic airplane for her son.  A flight attendant rolls her bag effortlessly through security.  An airline employee at gate thirty-two deals with an irate passenger, who will afterwards feel guilty for ruining her day.  There is a small crisis in the bathroom, swiftly attended to.  The electric cart moving between gates carries a passenger who can no longer walk, and barely misses running into one who can. A plane is late.  Another one is early. All this happens when you die, and if you don’t believe me you are alone, and stranded beyond help.

MARY RUEFLE‘s new book, The Book, appeared from Wave Books in the fall 0f 2023.

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