Still, but life.
Jenna Pfeifer
You sit on your bed, and the mattress curves into a smile. A shoebox lies before you. Your box of special things. You meet your box here often. Sometimes to escape feeling. Other times to conjure it. You remove the top, and its whole body weakens. The outer edges are sanded soft from repetitive touching. Inside, the life is still. Like a still life. Still, but life.
A threadbare bunny, the size of your palm. Its color is muted from years of being held. You took this everywhere. You also left this everywhere. Once, your entire family missed the train to Rome because the bunny was hiding, and you refused to leave without him. Another time, you were camping with some families close to the Orange River. You got up to wee in the night but got lost on the way back. Eventually you found your bearings and crawled back onto your blow-up mattress, which in the meantime had lost all its air. In the early hours, you awoke again when the sun was just rearing its head, and realized you were not sleeping where you ought to be. Rather, you were curled up next to a foreign couple whose adult bodies formed similar shapes to your mom and dad. You got up in a rush and ran back to your parents. Camp was still sleeping, so no one would ever know. Except, you left evidence behind in the shape of a bunny. The next day, everybody laughed at you. Dad made the whole thing into a home video.
An old copy of your passport. The 50-gram book that was your lifeline. The version of you that expired long ago.
A letter scribed on toilet paper from a fairy. a.k.a., Dad.
Sadie’s collar. You slide your wrist through to wear it as a bracelet. What was blue has faded from all those years baking in the sun. She would lay, belly up, by the tall window on the landing. Evading homework, you would go sit with her and she’d climb in your lap. Middle Eastern summers were hot and humid, and she had ears like Dumbo, cold from the sizeable surface area. She was urgent with her licking of your palm. Clearly she loved you, but Timmy said it was because she liked the taste of salt. When you put her to sleep, Dad wrapped her in her favorite blanket, before lowering her to rest in the garden. You had never seen him cry, until that day where he wept.
A blessing on gold-rimmed parchment. You were not religious, but you liked the words on the back: Resplendent and Rapture.
A nail from your old bunk bed. Timmy used to sleep on the bottom, even though he had his own room. Once, you vomited over the side of it and Dad caught it with cupped hands.
The x-ray of your broken arm. A hairline fracture. Mom had done laundry, and you didn’t have a towel to hand, so you ran naked, to avoid Timmy who was watching TV in the living room. Instead, you slipped and fell displaying the whole of you to him. You were mortified. He was humored.
The hot-pink armband that you wore to a sports social when you were 16. Everyone was snogging that night, including you. You got so drunk from warm beer that you threw up in the Uber. Luckily you were sober enough to throw up on yourself, to avoid the fine. You blacked out and the next day you Facebook messaged the three boys you’d kissed to make sure that was all that happened. You worried about pregnancy. You googled a bit and then got a mirror to check your hymen was still intact. Even though you couldn’t remember having sex. Even though you didn’t have your period yet.
A ribbon of blue from volunteering in Zimbabwe. One night a fire broke out, and all the local villagers came out to help, beating the flames with sugar-snap branches. You were stunned to see children as young as three and four, swinging sand buckets of water. At Rhino Day, you met the first boy that made you feel something like lust. He made fun of your unworldliness and then he held your hand underneath the tarp on the back of the Land Rover. You wanted to be close to him, but you didn’t want him to see you up close. When you flew home, the air hostess gave you an extra pudding because she saw you were crying through your eye shades.
A polaroid from your 21st birthday. You were standing by the river in Durham. Ducks and row boats in the distance. You were deathly pale from the English sun. You were wearing a smile, but underneath was homesick. Missing was forming the outer edges of your heart.
A pamphlet from the GP office: Your Mind Matters. You remember wondering about slowing down. Down should really have come before the slow. Down forced slow upon you.
A condom wrapper from that boy you met in the park during Covid. You were twenty-three, and he broke your hymen but not your heart
An envelope for Peter, who did break your heart. It contained many things, as it should, given the weight of him. A photograph of the pair of you on New Years, pressed deep into his armchair. The heel of one hand on your chest bone, the other around your neck. Davie took the photograph. That night, the three of you were high on MDMA and shared a bed. That was the first time Peter told you he loved you. Two people I love, he said, smiling at the both of you. Tickets: the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra, Macbeth, Urban Nation. Two letters: one from the beginning; a note of his affection, and one from the end, the thesis of his regret.
A twig of lavender, still aromatic. A bouquet you made for Mom when she was in the hospital for her double mastectomy.
A race bib from the 16-miler along Blomberg beach. Axel, who had done an Iron Man, ran with you the entire way. That’s when you realized you loved him. You always wanted to fall in love with your best friend, so you kept searching for reasons.
The silver key that opens 600 mountain cabins in Norway. After crossing a glacier, you met a Swedish nurse who taught you Shithead with playing cards and together you sang, Your rocky spine. You wrote a poem about the drinking the air and the Mountain’s snow-capped brow.
You don’t regret much, but that which you do, you keep confined to a single Post-it note:
A naked drawing of yourself for the time Ally asked you to model for life drawing.
A stack of postcards, penned pretty with promises. You became too good at saying goodbye. An expert at loving from a distance.
This is your container.
Where being sits beside longing. Your belonging.
Where all that you carried, carries you.
A threadbare bunny, the size of your palm. Its color is muted from years of being held. You took this everywhere. You also left this everywhere. Once, your entire family missed the train to Rome because the bunny was hiding, and you refused to leave without him. Another time, you were camping with some families close to the Orange River. You got up to wee in the night but got lost on the way back. Eventually you found your bearings and crawled back onto your blow-up mattress, which in the meantime had lost all its air. In the early hours, you awoke again when the sun was just rearing its head, and realized you were not sleeping where you ought to be. Rather, you were curled up next to a foreign couple whose adult bodies formed similar shapes to your mom and dad. You got up in a rush and ran back to your parents. Camp was still sleeping, so no one would ever know. Except, you left evidence behind in the shape of a bunny. The next day, everybody laughed at you. Dad made the whole thing into a home video.
An old copy of your passport. The 50-gram book that was your lifeline. The version of you that expired long ago.
A letter scribed on toilet paper from a fairy. a.k.a., Dad.
Sadie’s collar. You slide your wrist through to wear it as a bracelet. What was blue has faded from all those years baking in the sun. She would lay, belly up, by the tall window on the landing. Evading homework, you would go sit with her and she’d climb in your lap. Middle Eastern summers were hot and humid, and she had ears like Dumbo, cold from the sizeable surface area. She was urgent with her licking of your palm. Clearly she loved you, but Timmy said it was because she liked the taste of salt. When you put her to sleep, Dad wrapped her in her favorite blanket, before lowering her to rest in the garden. You had never seen him cry, until that day where he wept.
A blessing on gold-rimmed parchment. You were not religious, but you liked the words on the back: Resplendent and Rapture.
A nail from your old bunk bed. Timmy used to sleep on the bottom, even though he had his own room. Once, you vomited over the side of it and Dad caught it with cupped hands.
The x-ray of your broken arm. A hairline fracture. Mom had done laundry, and you didn’t have a towel to hand, so you ran naked, to avoid Timmy who was watching TV in the living room. Instead, you slipped and fell displaying the whole of you to him. You were mortified. He was humored.
The hot-pink armband that you wore to a sports social when you were 16. Everyone was snogging that night, including you. You got so drunk from warm beer that you threw up in the Uber. Luckily you were sober enough to throw up on yourself, to avoid the fine. You blacked out and the next day you Facebook messaged the three boys you’d kissed to make sure that was all that happened. You worried about pregnancy. You googled a bit and then got a mirror to check your hymen was still intact. Even though you couldn’t remember having sex. Even though you didn’t have your period yet.
A ribbon of blue from volunteering in Zimbabwe. One night a fire broke out, and all the local villagers came out to help, beating the flames with sugar-snap branches. You were stunned to see children as young as three and four, swinging sand buckets of water. At Rhino Day, you met the first boy that made you feel something like lust. He made fun of your unworldliness and then he held your hand underneath the tarp on the back of the Land Rover. You wanted to be close to him, but you didn’t want him to see you up close. When you flew home, the air hostess gave you an extra pudding because she saw you were crying through your eye shades.
A polaroid from your 21st birthday. You were standing by the river in Durham. Ducks and row boats in the distance. You were deathly pale from the English sun. You were wearing a smile, but underneath was homesick. Missing was forming the outer edges of your heart.
A pamphlet from the GP office: Your Mind Matters. You remember wondering about slowing down. Down should really have come before the slow. Down forced slow upon you.
A condom wrapper from that boy you met in the park during Covid. You were twenty-three, and he broke your hymen but not your heart
An envelope for Peter, who did break your heart. It contained many things, as it should, given the weight of him. A photograph of the pair of you on New Years, pressed deep into his armchair. The heel of one hand on your chest bone, the other around your neck. Davie took the photograph. That night, the three of you were high on MDMA and shared a bed. That was the first time Peter told you he loved you. Two people I love, he said, smiling at the both of you. Tickets: the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra, Macbeth, Urban Nation. Two letters: one from the beginning; a note of his affection, and one from the end, the thesis of his regret.
A twig of lavender, still aromatic. A bouquet you made for Mom when she was in the hospital for her double mastectomy.
A race bib from the 16-miler along Blomberg beach. Axel, who had done an Iron Man, ran with you the entire way. That’s when you realized you loved him. You always wanted to fall in love with your best friend, so you kept searching for reasons.
- He would never listen to single songs, only albums.
- He held a potato like an oracle.
- He closed doors quietly.
The silver key that opens 600 mountain cabins in Norway. After crossing a glacier, you met a Swedish nurse who taught you Shithead with playing cards and together you sang, Your rocky spine. You wrote a poem about the drinking the air and the Mountain’s snow-capped brow.
You don’t regret much, but that which you do, you keep confined to a single Post-it note:
- Telling your friend Mabel that Timmy liked her back, when he didn’t, because she had a crush on him and you wanted her to like you.
- That guy you met that came in, that you let, without asking.
- Taking your hunger for harm.
- Seeing the line between survival and suffering but crossing it anyway.
A naked drawing of yourself for the time Ally asked you to model for life drawing.
A stack of postcards, penned pretty with promises. You became too good at saying goodbye. An expert at loving from a distance.
This is your container.
Where being sits beside longing. Your belonging.
Where all that you carried, carries you.
Jenna Pfeifer, originally from South Africa, now lives in the Netherlands, where she is doing PhD research on how loneliness colors the world. Jenna’s main priority in life is people: understanding them, connecting to them, observing them, writing about them, loving them. She is also an avid hiker, dancer and singer in the shower(er).