The Weight of Nothing: Chapter Six
Ana
Read The Weight of Nothing - Chapter One
Read The Weight of Nothing - Chapter Two
Read The Weight of Nothing - Chapter Three
Read The Weight of Nothing - Chapter Four
Read The Weight of Nothing - Chapter Five
The fountain man doesn’t sleep. Can’t. His arms ache from holding nothing.
He returns to the square before dawn. Before the sky decides what color to be. The fountain is there. Has always been there. Will always be there. Water flowing, pointless but committed.
He sits at the edge. His hands hover over the water. Cup the air above it. The weight his body insists exists.
“Ana,” he whispers. Testing the shape. “Ana. Ana. Ana.”
The name is a rope he’s trying to climb. Every repetition pulling him closer to something. Or further. Hard to tell.
He closes his eyes. Tries to force the memory. Sees nothing. But his body feels. Small weight in his arms. Warmth. Movement. Breathing. The way she’d curl into his chest. Fit perfectly. Like she was made for that exact space.
Made from that exact space.
Daughter. The word clicking. Daughter. His daughter. Ana.
What happened to her?
His body doesn’t know. Or won’t say. Just insists she existed. Insists he held her. Insists she mattered more than anything else would ever matter again.
He opens his eyes. Stares at his empty hands. They’re scarred. Rough. Working hands. But also gentle hands. Hands that knew how to hold someone small. How to support a head that couldn’t hold itself up yet. How to—
Change diapers. The phrase coming from nowhere. He knew how to change diapers. Knew the smell. Knew the wiping motions. Knew the way you had to lift both legs together, gentle, supporting the weight.
His hands move now. Practicing. Remembering. Change the diaper. Clean. Apply powder—powder. That’s the smell. Not perfume. Baby powder. Ana smelled like baby powder and milk and something else. Something uniquely her.
A woman approaches. Not the scar woman. Someone else. She’s been crying. Or her body has been crying and she’s just along for the ride.
“You’re the one who says Ana,” she states.
“Yes.”
“I had a son.” Her voice flat. Dead. “My breasts ache. Like they’re still full. Like he still needs—” She stops. “But there’s no milk. There’s nothing.”
She sits beside him. Uninvited but welcome. Or maybe welcome isn’t the right word. Maybe just understood.
“My body wants to feed him. Rock him. Sing.” She laughs. Bitter. “I don’t know songs. But my mouth knows the melodies. How is that possible?”
“Muscle carries what we can’t hold,” he says. The phrase he’s heard others use. “Our bodies are archives.”
“I don’t want to be an archive. I want to be empty.”
He looks at her. Really looks. She’s maybe forty. Maybe thirty. Hard to tell when age requires comparison to past selves. But her eyes hold something old. Something broken.
“There’s a meeting tonight,” he says. “People like us. Maybe it helps. Maybe it doesn’t. But we’re trying to figure out what to do with this—” He gestures at his arms, her chest. “With the weight.”
“And if we decide to destroy it? The wall, the names, all of it? Would you agree?”
He’s quiet for a long time. Watching the fountain. Water flowing endlessly into itself.
“I don’t know,” he says finally. “Part of me wants Ana back so badly I’d tear the world apart to find her. Part of me knows she’s gone and this is just—torture. Grief without end.”
“Then why keep saying her name?”
“Because someone should. Because she existed. Because—” His voice breaks. “Because I loved her more than I’ve loved anything and maybe that’s all I get. Just the echo of it. The shape of her in my arms.”
The woman nods. Doesn’t speak for a while. Then: “I’m going tonight. To argue for mercy. For erasure. But I wanted to meet you first. See what I’m arguing against.”
“And?”
“You make it hard. Your love is—” She stops. Starts again. “Your love makes the case for memory. But your pain makes the case for mercy. I don’t know which matters more.”
“Neither do I.”
They sit until the square fills with people. Until the fountain becomes background noise. Until the sun decides to commit to rising.
Then she stands. “What was your name? Before?”
He stares. The question unexpected. Unwelcome. Impossible.
“I don’t know.”
“Neither do I.” She walks away.
He sits. Returns to his vigil. His hands cupping nothing. His arms aching. His mouth forming that name over and over until it becomes a prayer, a curse, a tether to something he can’t reach but can’t release.
Ana. Ana. Ana.
His body’s truth. His mind’s torture. Both. Always both.