Strong Hands, Giving Hands
Though I gain consciousness, my body remains perfectly still. The heaviness of the blankets draped over my sleeping bag combined with the way my body fits perfectly in my cot gives me a sense of physical security that I do not want to lose quite yet. I am comfortably warm. I know that if I extend my legs, my feet will touch the end of the sleeping bag and my warmth will be stolen from me. Sleeping with my knees bent kept the bottom of the bag from being infiltrated by my body heat and turned it into a silky freezer.
Cold air was in my lungs already; that was inescapable. The feeling of suffocation I feel when breathing in what has just left my lungs keeps me from being able to sleep with my mouth covered or without airflow under the bag. As I refuse to allow my sleep to be affected negatively in any way, from freezing or from carbon monoxide, I developed a system that protected me from both discomforts. A fleece beanie covered the top half of my face and enveloped my ears. The sleeping bag is over my head, but the edge is expertly draped over the side of the cot and allows just enough air to enter and escape to keep me sane. My hands hold another blanket, underneath the bag, just over my chin to keep any of the frozen air from seeping beneath the breathing bubble and chilling my bones. These elaborate adjustments allow me to disappear every night into another world. A world where I am off my feet, where I am warm, where I am unafraid.
Most nights my dreams take me to nonsensical lands, replay scenes of my past, or act out my secret desires. Every morning before I allow myself to move, before I destroy the bubble, before I remove the beanie that shields my eyes, I replay the dream I just exited in an effort to store it in my memory. Last night's dream that is still fresh in my mind felt like a memory, but with my mind awake I can recognize it as fiction. My mother was there, her round face framed by her unforgettable curly ginger hair. Her freckled face was an aged version of the one my sister now sports. I cannot help but wonder if I have forgotten what it looked like and subconsciously substituted Janie's face or if the teen truly was just a carbon copy of our spirited mother. In the dream we were climbing the cliffs that had been a few miles from our home years ago. She was looking down at me, a smile stretched across her face and her eyes mischievous, when she released the rock and I was the only thing supporting her weight. Although it was a dream, I could still feel the rope in my hands as I cinched it over the belay device and as my heels were lifted off the ground. She swayed in the air and laughed as I lowered her playfully, letting her freefall before catching her at the bottom. The scene was deceivingly real until Paul appeared. A grin revealed his teeth as he offered a hand to my mother who rested on the dirt.
I inhaled deeply and held it in for a defiant second. My mother never met Paul and I do not care to remember the rest of the fictitious dream. My exhale was coupled with dropping the cover at my chin. Sitting up destroyed my intricate system but it was time. The outer blankets fell, and my torso emerged from the sleeping bag. Removing the beanie allowed me to look around the tent that was lit by a small firepit dug into the dirt floor. Two feet from me in her own cot was my younger sister Janie. She too slept with her feet pulled up with the cat laid at her head on the pillow. I watched her body rise with each breath. Janie does not wake easily or joyfully, so I take her morning shifts at the kitchen and she takes my evenings. By the time she awoke, the sun would be up, and breakfast would be ready. My father sleeps on Janie's other side, with his feet stretched to the end of his sleeping bag. His body is barely visible over my sister as he sleeps on a piece of wood on the floor; his body is too big for a cot. Dad works second shift on the towers and he will not be up until after breakfast has ended.
In the dark, I remove my thermal underwear top, careful to keep it in front of me until I can cover my exposed breasts with a sports bra. After the bra is on, I begin to layer. Tank top, long sleeve with holes for my thumbs, fleece jacket. Remaining under the covers, I remove my thermal bottoms. I reach under the cot where I keep my clothes in a bag and pull out clean underwear and my favorite sweatpants. For a split second, my feet are exposed to the chill, but then are swiftly slipped into my fuzzy house shoes. Four pair of boots surround the fire and above is a metal grate with four feet staked into the surrounding dirt. Straddling the grate are two diagonal four-foot metal poles that are welded together at the top by a horizontal pole, thus creating a hanging rack. Draped across this are 4 pairs of socks, the blue pair is mine. Sitting on one of the chairs near the fire I put on the hot socks and stuff my toasty feet into my boots with my sweatpants tucked in. The Dutch oven pot filled with water sits next to the fire ready to be heated. Occasionally we will cook food in it, but as the community provides three meals a day, we usually just use it to heat our hygiene water. I hang the pot from the rack by its bail and a D-ring. I do not set it right on the grate because I do not want it to be boiled and scolding for my family when they wake. Currently, the water is tepid. Good enough for me. I take my designated rag from my mesh shelf hanging from the tent ceiling, wet it, and use it to wash my face and my armpits.
It is Wednesday, so I will do a thorough wipe down tonight and on Saturday I get to take a bath. Saturday is my favorite day of the week. Baths are not the same as before, but they still make me feel genuinely clean and help me to relax. Toothpaste has not been around for a while, but I have been taught to make a charcoal and mint mix that does a decent enough job. My grandfather, my mom's dad, was a dentist and it was instilled in Janie and me early that brushing our teeth is a necessity. I quickly but efficiently clean the surfaces of my teeth and scrape my tongue before I floss. I spit into the small container that has been designated for just that and upon completing my oral hygiene I clean my face again with slightly warmer water.
My hair was more like my dad's than my mom's. It would be classified as brown unless in direct sun when the red tint can be seen, and it is revealed to be auburn. I inherited the curl, but they were loose and became waves when my thick hair was long like it is now. I put it into a neat bun at the back of my head and cover it with my beanie.
Stepping outside, I am met with stillness. The early morning is quiet but the sky screams at me. Speckled throughout the massive canvas above are innumerable stars that had once been invisible due to light pollution. This is a plus side. Even though my cheeks and nose sting from the cold, I appreciate that I have been given this view. The sight fills my chest and I stare up as I walk to the makeshift latrine a throw from the tent. I know this place; I do not need to pay attention to my surroundings. My feet crunch the snow underneath and I tear my eyes away to softly tap the bell outside of the shower curtains that form a circle around the bucket. It is a rule that when you are finished, you are to leave the curtain open, but sometimes in a sleepy state, the rule is forgotten. That seems to be the case now, as no one answers. I pull the black curtain open tenderly, attempting to keep the rusted metal hooks from scraping too loudly against the hanging rod. Four families share this latrine, and four tents surround it. I relieve myself and gaze at the moon through the sheer curtain on the top of the enclosed area. It did not snow last night; if it had, the top curtain would appear dark navy and I would rush to keep from being in when the crude ceiling collapsed. The toilet is a five-gallon bucket with an old toilet seat on it. I do not see the point in the seat because I do not know who would use it, I do my very best to hover. Today, is my family's turn to dump it, but thankfully my father always does it for us.
I have been outside a few short minutes, but my fingers have already begun to feel tight from the cold. My face suffers the sting of the dry cold air, but I am grateful there is no wind this morning. I wipe with a thin rag and leave the curtain open for the next person. Immediately I return to my family's tent, the canvas wall tent on the right side of the latrine closest to the compressed snow path that we call a road. All down this road are areas similar to ours; four tents in a square formation that has a shower curtain containing a toilet in the center. Each tent is customized by the family that occupies it, the ones with young children are obvious because of dirty handprints or various works of art along the exterior walls. I head inside and ladle some hot water into a small bowl. I place my wiping rag in it and set it by the entrance. This will be where all our rags go until they are washed later this evening.
Sarah needs to be up to tend to the animals and milk the caprine and ovine, but she lays motionless next to Dad on their "bed". She is a few years older than him and looks it. Her presence hurts me, but she treats us well and has brightened my previously pained father. I notice that her feet are tucked under Dad's leg. I bend down next to her and nudge her shoulder. Her body jerks and her head raised. She peeks a sleepy eye at me and I make a milking motion with my hands. She nods and drops her head again resting momentarily before stirring once more to get ready. I put on my snow suit overalls and my heavy outer jacket with a hood. Briefly, I look back at the women that sleeps where my mother should. Her back is to me, but I know her sleepy eyes are a soft brown. I miss the bright blue of my mother's. I duck back out into the crisp morning.