Ants
79
Waves of heat roll over the interminable and disjointed campus grounds. Esme walks. Her walk echoes through the emptiness. Through the silence. The birds are quieter today, the sun is more unbearable, and no noise can be heard from the students. There are no students. There is only Esme. One thought encircled her mind, and this thought crowded the silence: The class is at 1 pm. If she got there before her friend Tamara, she would save her a seat. Esme plans to be early and the class is at 1 pm. But now looking at her phone it was 1:05 and the class is at 1 pm. The class was at 1 pm. She begins to run, but stumbles. Esme catches her footing only to turn and see a trail of ants. She stands over a fresh loaf of bread, still in its packaging. Through a small opening, the ants transport the bread, each carrying a small crumb. They vanish into the tall grass one by one. She towers over them as more and more move towards the bread and she almost begins to forget. Esme makes her way towards the classroom and finds the door, but it does not move. Peering through the window, a dark abyss stares back at her disheveled reflection. She could hear books shuffling, students talking; but they were nowhere to be seen. The windows, corners, walls, stairs. She passes them all. Then, there is a clearing and in the middle of the field, sits the oak tree. There, sitting under the tree were the students, the professor, and Tamara, now silent. “Hey, what’s going on?” Esme sits down next to Tamara. “You’re early. Class hasn’t started yet,” says Tamara. “Really? But isn’t it past 1:00 now…?” Tamara takes out a dark blue textbook from her bag. “Could I share the textbook with you?” Esme whispers. “I think I forgot mine.” “Yeah, of course.” Tamara opens the textbook, slightly brushing hands with Esme. A sudden shiver, Esme feels, crawls through her spine. Tamara’s hands. “Your hands. They are freezing…” “Freezing?” Tamara’s lifeless gaze meets hers. Her eyes, Esme notices, are faded, no longer a bright brown. Where did she go? This was not the friend she knew. This girl had the voice of Tamara, looked like Tamara, but this was not Tamara. Esme spoke to explain, but her words failed her. There was only silence. “Esme.” A voice booms. There stood the professor, unmoved. She watches her with those eyes, and the students stare as well, with the same. Breathing is something Esme forgets. It escapes her. “Why are you here, Esme?” “I- I’m sure this is the right class. It’s only been a month, but I know…” “A month?” The professor mocks her. “Esme, try 238 days.” 238 days. Two hundred thirty-eight.
POETRY
MONIQUE DEL AGEY
