Mathushek

Mathushek could smell the sea again. For most of the cold season, he hasn’t been sure of that fact, having been wrapped in a chilled numbness. But now, with warmer drafts permeating the house, he knew that he was closer to the sea than he had been in a very long while.

The cold season had caught him by surprise. Even though it should not have after that long journey in the dark with boxes jammed around. Now that had been unexpected. But then, the last few years had shown so many changes—first, she had removed him from the home where he had comfortably sat through long years of solitude and occasional attention.

While he knew that that he wasn’t the handsome beauty he once had been, he hadn’t wanted to be taken taken apart, and left to sit in the hot, humid room with only dust and her frowning visits to look forward to. Then she brought others to see him in that state. Mathushek wasn’t sure what to expect. But finally brightness and caressing hands and scraping and painting left him feeling young again—or, rather, renewed.

Mathushek would never be young again.

After years of solitude, he suddenly felt alive. Living in her sunny room while being admired and enjoyed frequently. Oh, the joy and the glory of her touch—inexpert and somewhat simple as it was. Surely this would be his permanent home. He had suffered the dark humid room, survived the dust and the loneliness: This would be his reward.

But Mathushek had been wrong.

Instead, he had to suffer though the long journey. The weather had been warm when he left home, uncomfortably hot even. But as the days progressed, the jarring and bouncing in the truck were nothing compared to the increasing chill. By the time Mathushek reached his new quarters, he felt frozen solid. A numbness so complete had taken over his very fibers that it hurt to be touched. He just wanted her to leave him alone in this icy pain. Somehow, breathing and expanding were new activities—he had forgotten how very much colder a room could be.

And he simply endured her touch instead of enjoying it as he once had.

Finally, the cold numbness waned. He became more aware of his surroundings. This room wasn’t as large or sunny as his previous quarters. But the furnishings were the same, if somewhat fewer than before. He actually could see through the window now, and passed his time watching birds, people, cars. On occasion he observed an odd furry creature, smaller than her cat, that neither walked nor crawled. Mostly, the animal passed by in the dim hours, when all was silent inside and out. He often wished he could ask her what it was.

Except that, as his awareness returned, her visits became more infrequent. She frowned more often, even though her touch no longer pained him. At first, he wasn’t sure why. But as the scent of sea and a blessed warmth permeated his fibers, he began to share her concern. Those very fibers felt strangely wrong. As if, in thawing out, he hadn’t returned to his prior glory.

She pried and frowned and made irritated noises, though he tried and tried to respond the way she expected. The way he expected. Yet nothing worked right.

The long cold days had damaged him.

Flowers bloomed beyond the window, then were smashed flat as rain washed the windows clean day after day. And still she didn’t return to Mathushek’s room. He could hear her above, sometimes playing loud music, sometimes just talking to her cat. In this new place, not even the cat visited him.

To ward off impending loneliness, he tried to remember when last he had smelled the sea. He had sat in that old sunny room for so many years, with only a faint tang of sea air to remind him of once was. He could recall earlier days when she was young. Had the sea scent been in his fibers then? Yes, he thought, it had. Except that it hadn’t smelled quite like this sea. Back then, he had been warm all the time, and swollen with humidity.

This place, with the long cold spell, clearly wasn’t the same. Besides the journey to her new home had awoken a similar memory. In his youth, so very long ago, Mathushek had traveled a long distance. He had left a place where cold had been constant, but accompanied by a whiff of salt air and bird’s cries. He had arrived at a place where the birds sounded the same, but the sea smelled different. He had grown used to that different scent.

While trying to work through such very old and long memories, Mathushek realized that she had returned. And with a man who poked and prodded but didn’t make the same irritated noises she had made. He removed some parts, then replaced them but with additions in between. Mathushek wished he could squirm, but he wasn’t sure it would be with pleasure or discomfort. These added parts created new angles to his front. Then, the newcomer began to make adjustments.

And oh, the sweet glory of his touch. Oh, to once again feel right.

She stood by while the newcomer tweaked and played. They talked, then the man left. She returned with sheet music and a new bench. Settling in, she began the first hesitant chords of a song he had never heard before. Mathushek would have cried if he could. She had not abandoned him. As her touch firmed into confidence once more, he gave her all that he could. And she smiled.

Mathushek would have smiled too if he could give her that as well, with her chords ringing through him, and the scent of sea in his fibers. He remembered this from his youth: Long cold days, then blessed warmth, salty air—and the joy of being touched and adored. He was whole again.

And he was home.