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Lady Lazarus and Her Advice
I put down the book.
My second time reading it.
It's blue cover, with the picture of legs and older shoes.
Probably brand new when the book was written.
The pink letters of the author's name.
The white letters of the book's title.
I smile down at it.
And get up quietly, trying not to wake my boyfriend.
That lay next to me.
I place it on my shelve.
Along with all my other books by and about this wonderful woman.
I smile thinking of how I'm so happy.
For Esther to get out of the asylum.
She's going to have such a good life now.
I think this to myself as I exit my bedroom thinking to go check on my son.
Than I remember who Esther is.
That Esther is Sylvia.
And Sylvia didn't have a happy ending--
My kitchen fades before me.
The fake wood paneling of the floor turns checkered black and white.
And the woman walking around the kitchen is not my mother.
Or any person I know.
I stand near my bedroom but when I look for the bed and my boyfriend who was sleeping in it, they are both gone.
And I am staring at a wall.
And a calender that reads February 1963.
Where am I?
The 11th is circled but I don't know why.
The woman paces back and forth.
Mumbling to herself.
She has brown hair.
And is wearing a dress.
The colors are distorted because everything looks black and white.
I stare at her.
And watch her.
She's holding a medicine bottle in her hands.
And looking down at it.
Than up at the clock.
Than stopping looking at the door.
The door that if this were my house would be my living room.
I move forward.
She doesn't seem to see me.
Am I just as much a ghost to her.
As she is to me.
I look into the room that she's been looking at.
There's a door.
I open it slowly.
There is a baby asleep in a cradle.
And a little girl on a bed.
Both sound asleep.
And their mother pacing back and forth.
I return to the woman.
She standing by the sink and is taking the pills now.
She looks up at the wall.
Tears slide down her face.
She picks up a towel on the counter and walks past me in a cool motion.
And pushes it under the door.
"I'm sorry"
She whispers.
And she turns on the stove.
Leaning down to blow out the pilot light.
Going back to the sink.
To finish the pills.
She stumbles and drops the pill bottle on the floor.
It rolls to my feet.
Tiny white pills falling out.
Tears come to my eyes.
Here she is.
This woman that I looked up to.
Because we were so much alike.
"Don't go"
She looks up at for a minute I think she can see me.
But than she falls forward leaning on the oven's door.
It falls open and she hits it with bang.
Her children don't even stir.
What would've happened if they had?
I go over to her.
But she is knocked unconscious from hitting the oven's door.
I try to move her but I can't.
I phase right through her.
"Please wake up!"
I cry.
But she can't hear me now.
Even if she did before.
"Don't go"
I blink and I'm in my own kitchen staring at my own oven.
There is no woman.
No sleeping pills.
No suicide.
I go back into my room.
Grabbing the book off the shelf.
Tears sliding down my face.
Turning it over and seeing the date of her death.
February 11th, 1963
There it is.
I watched it all.
And I couldn't stop her.
"Sylvia, why did you have to go?"
A hand is on my shoulder.
I smile.
My boyfriend must have heard me crying.
I look up but Andrew isn't standing there.
It's her.
She's faded.
Black and white.
Like she stepped out of an old movie.
She smiles at me.
"A lesson for you, don't leave them yourself."
And she's gone.
And I understand.
I watched this woman die.
So I didn't do it one day myself.
Lady Lazarus was right in front of me.
The Bell Jar.
Esther Greenwood.
Victoria Lucas.
My hero and literary role model.
The wonderful and brilliant.
Sylvia Plath.
My second time reading it.
It's blue cover, with the picture of legs and older shoes.
Probably brand new when the book was written.
The pink letters of the author's name.
The white letters of the book's title.
I smile down at it.
And get up quietly, trying not to wake my boyfriend.
That lay next to me.
I place it on my shelve.
Along with all my other books by and about this wonderful woman.
I smile thinking of how I'm so happy.
For Esther to get out of the asylum.
She's going to have such a good life now.
I think this to myself as I exit my bedroom thinking to go check on my son.
Than I remember who Esther is.
That Esther is Sylvia.
And Sylvia didn't have a happy ending--
My kitchen fades before me.
The fake wood paneling of the floor turns checkered black and white.
And the woman walking around the kitchen is not my mother.
Or any person I know.
I stand near my bedroom but when I look for the bed and my boyfriend who was sleeping in it, they are both gone.
And I am staring at a wall.
And a calender that reads February 1963.
Where am I?
The 11th is circled but I don't know why.
The woman paces back and forth.
Mumbling to herself.
She has brown hair.
And is wearing a dress.
The colors are distorted because everything looks black and white.
I stare at her.
And watch her.
She's holding a medicine bottle in her hands.
And looking down at it.
Than up at the clock.
Than stopping looking at the door.
The door that if this were my house would be my living room.
I move forward.
She doesn't seem to see me.
Am I just as much a ghost to her.
As she is to me.
I look into the room that she's been looking at.
There's a door.
I open it slowly.
There is a baby asleep in a cradle.
And a little girl on a bed.
Both sound asleep.
And their mother pacing back and forth.
I return to the woman.
She standing by the sink and is taking the pills now.
She looks up at the wall.
Tears slide down her face.
She picks up a towel on the counter and walks past me in a cool motion.
And pushes it under the door.
"I'm sorry"
She whispers.
And she turns on the stove.
Leaning down to blow out the pilot light.
Going back to the sink.
To finish the pills.
She stumbles and drops the pill bottle on the floor.
It rolls to my feet.
Tiny white pills falling out.
Tears come to my eyes.
Here she is.
This woman that I looked up to.
Because we were so much alike.
"Don't go"
She looks up at for a minute I think she can see me.
But than she falls forward leaning on the oven's door.
It falls open and she hits it with bang.
Her children don't even stir.
What would've happened if they had?
I go over to her.
But she is knocked unconscious from hitting the oven's door.
I try to move her but I can't.
I phase right through her.
"Please wake up!"
I cry.
But she can't hear me now.
Even if she did before.
"Don't go"
I blink and I'm in my own kitchen staring at my own oven.
There is no woman.
No sleeping pills.
No suicide.
I go back into my room.
Grabbing the book off the shelf.
Tears sliding down my face.
Turning it over and seeing the date of her death.
February 11th, 1963
There it is.
I watched it all.
And I couldn't stop her.
"Sylvia, why did you have to go?"
A hand is on my shoulder.
I smile.
My boyfriend must have heard me crying.
I look up but Andrew isn't standing there.
It's her.
She's faded.
Black and white.
Like she stepped out of an old movie.
She smiles at me.
"A lesson for you, don't leave them yourself."
And she's gone.
And I understand.
I watched this woman die.
So I didn't do it one day myself.
Lady Lazarus was right in front of me.
The Bell Jar.
Esther Greenwood.
Victoria Lucas.
My hero and literary role model.
The wonderful and brilliant.
Sylvia Plath.
Published 17th Jun 2013
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