Your skin is not your skin after a month—it’s all new skin. The air that pours out is not the same air from when we were younger, newly married, when we bought and inflated that mattress with his-and-hers sections to adjust for hardness. The hard one liked it soft, the soft one hard. Perhaps there are some molecules remaining of that air of the year 2000—the cool Seattle air of that first house on Mt. Baker Ridge, with its view of downtown and the Amazon building and, far in the distance, the snow-capped Cascade Mountains glowing pink at sunrise. The life ahead, the future faintly peeking in as if it belonged to someone else. We inflated that mattress without thinking, trapped the hope, the expectation, and we slept on top of it, give or take some air, for the next twenty-five years.
When I let the air out this morning, I lay on top to help it go faster, the coming-out like wind in my face, caressing, cleansing, forgiving, reclaiming the past and letting it go all at once. The whooshing next to my ear was deafening at first, then grew fainter as my body descended, until it stopped when I touched the boards: flat, in silence and stillness at last.
Awaiting us was a memory foam mattress, not as light; we heaved it on top of the bed frame without much thought. Solid memory foam: we can sink in now, after floating on top for so long. I put the old mattress at the curb, disassembled, folded, and hollowed out the air of a lifetime. I was pensive. He said there is nothing left from that air, but I lingered on that thought—maybe a molecule or two.
Like the skin: what do you call it when all the cells are long gone, but it still holds the shape of your face and not someone else’s?
That must be hope.
Dolo Diaz is a scientist and poet with roots in Spain, currently residing in California. Her work has appeared in The Summerset Review, ONE ART, The Lake, Third Wednesday, Rogue Agent, among others. Website: dolodiaz.com