Writing in Reverse

In his Turnstile Photography Project, Bill Sullivan captures the face of New York City so to speak. In his collection Sullivan captures various faces of people walking through the turnstiles to get on the subway. The images that he produces portray a wide array of facial expressions and actions. In response to an image of a woman walking through the turnstiles, I have written a short creative story describing her day and life up to the point of that moment.

Bleak. Everything of the past month could be described by this one word. Celia woke up at exactly 5:32, the usual time. Ever since she could remember she had always set her alarm clock to this time, out of nervous habit she’d guessed. She was always afraid she would be late to work, which started 10:30. With transit and preparation for the day, she figured she’d make it with at least two hours to spare. She supposed that it was a bit ridiculous to leave her house so early, but her nerves always got to her. She wouldn’t be able to leave her house earlier without going into a dramatic panic attack. But, oh yes, today. We were talking about today.

Today’s morning was one of those days. Ever since her husband and two children died in a plane crash two years ago, she’d never been quite the same. Lately, it had gotten to her more than usual. She supposed it was because it was the Christmas season. She cherished the holidays with her family. Her favorite part was the weather. Celia loved the cold, or used to. On this morning Celia lingered in bed, an unusual inconsistency in her day. She couldn’t help thinking of her husband. She’d remember the first time they’d met. She had tripped in the middle of the grocery store, too embarrassed to get up right away. Ellis was so handsome then, olive skin with deep green eyes; not over the age of 22. But that was a long time ago, Celia preferred to remember the earlier years of their lives together.

Even in her lowest time, Celia could always remember the scent of her husband and children. The sweet smell of musky lavender is what it was. Ellis had worked in a flower shop, always bringing home her favorite flower and scent, Lavender. The aroma would overpower the house, but she loved it. It reminded her of a safe place. It reminded her that no matter what, she would always be welcomed home by her family. In their small three bedroom apartment she and Ellis had raised their two children, Luna and Elijah. They were close, as close as a family gets any way. She could almost remember the sound of their voices, but no. Not today.

That was the thing, she couldn’t remember. She couldn’t remember their voices or how all of their beautiful green eyes caught the light in Central Park. Their sparkle, their charm, their finesse, it was gone. Everything was gone. Now was her time to wallow. She’d decided to leave at a normal time today. She needed time; time to think, time to remember, or at least try. But she couldn’t. All she felt was emptiness, an emptiness that felt neglected and ignored, like a pothole in Brooklyn. Today as she sat one her bed, she couldn’t cry. This was unusual, considering ever since there death she could hardly be alone without bursting into tears.

Her mind went blank. She couldn’t handle it. She couldn’t be alone, she was ashamed. Ashamed she couldn’t remember, ashamed she couldn’t cry for her babies. Drained was what she was. She needed to go, it was almost 9:00. As she grabbed her battered brown purse, she stopped. As she faced the mirror she was shocked. Her reflection had changed. She was withered. The wrinkles around her eyes had set, her bones pertruding, her face was sunken it. But she needed to go to work. Her days had grown long and bland, but she needed to get out. She stpped out in a bit of hurry, and headed toward the subway.