Megan Feniak

Still Waters Run Deep

 In a past apartment we had a chapel. We called it the chapel because of the windows, swampy amber glass, and steel muntins linking the diamond-shaped panes. Where I grew up this kind of architectural feature was uncommon, and so I was all the more absorbed by their charm. Clouded, the panes of glass allowed almost nothing in, save for a dim crackled glow. Those diamonds were always burning, consuming everything outside: the people and the clouds and the funeral home across the street. Of all the things I remember and try not to remember about my life on that muggy corner, the chapel seems like a signpost, consistently marking the days of those two years. More time was spent with the window than cumulatively with anyone else in that city, I am ashamed to admit.

I would have spent more time at the river. The wide, rushing river just a block north offered so much promise the first time I noticed it on google street view, trying to scope out the neighbourhood in advance of a cross-country move. I dreamed of bathing my heels there every summer evening, maybe even putting a suit on and dipping in. But you’re imagining a different kind of river, and there’s some kind of soapy run-off that makes a crust of sickly foam beside the bridge. Truly, I was afraid of the river. And hungry for the river. Walking home I pause to watch it heave big logs, tear at the shoreline with mania. Too much time spent with nowhere to go. The walks become longer to stave off the devil, the earwig in my sink, the centipede behind the bathtub. Back at the bridge I stoop for a drink, to cool my fever.