Michelle Balogh
flash fiction
Psithurism
By Michelle Balogh
It’s become our ritual, one that we never spoke of, but that we both take part in all the same. Like actors in a play, we know our roles, and we execute them well.
You will stay in bed because you need the energy an afternoon nap gives you. As soon as I hear your breathing slow down, I’ll quietly slip out of bed, careful not to wake you as I get dressed in jeans and one of your flannel button downs. I could wear my own clothes, but yours smell like you, and I like to have you with me everywhere I go.
My boots wait by the door, so after getting dressed I pull them on. They used to be stiff and uncomfortable, but the leather is soft now, and the soles have molded to my feet.
While you need an afternoon rest, I need an afternoon hike through the woods. It’s part of the reason why we moved here; this forest of aspens and pines on the mountain is home for me.
Breathing deeply as I walk the trail, I take in the scents of wild sage and juniper. The air is fresh and crisp, and I should have worn a jacket, but I don’t want to turn back now. My fingers brush the branches as I walk, and I know my fingers will smell like fresh pine. I keep going as the sun glints through the canopy of trees, the air lightly rustling the leaves.
The sound is soothing to me, and I looked it up once: psithurism, is what it’s called. My brain craves the ASMR and I look forward to it each day. It’s a pleasant white noise that I only seem to notice when it’s not there. Everything will be still, making me pause, and then a gentle breeze will kick up, tickling the leaves and making them sound like rolling ocean waves. ‘There,’ I think, when I hear it again, ‘that was what I needed that was missing.’
I like to look up words like that, like psithurism.
There’s also petrichor, which is how the earth smells when it rains after a long period without moisture.
And frondescence, the process of leaves appearing on trees and plants.
The path I take is only a couple miles long, so I know you’ll have plenty of rest each afternoon by the time I get back. As I head back to the humble cabin that we’ve made our home, I wonder what you’ll be doing when I step over the threshold.
Sometimes you’re still sleeping. Sometimes you’ve made us both tea, and you’re reading a book in your favorite chair. Once, you were turning our bedroom upside down looking for a lost sock.
I can smell that you’ve started a fire today, the scent of burning pinon and mesquite fills my nose before I even have our house in sight. It makes me smile, and I pick up my pace.
The cabin is warm as I step inside and use my toes to pull my boots off my heels. You’re in the kitchen and when you hear me softly close the door behind me, you look my way and smile. Your hair is disheveled, and your eyes are still sleepy, but your smile lights up your whole face and I can’t stop myself from smiling back.
We meet each other in the middle of the kitchen, and you hold a wine glass out to me. As I take it from you our fingertips touch, and even that small bit of contact makes my stomach twist pleasantly inside my belly. You bend forward to kiss my cheek, and your stubble tickles my skin.
“Dinners almost ready,” you say, nodding your head back to the stove. I breathe in the freshly baking bread and chili you’ve made so often, you could cook it with your eyes closed. “How was your hike?”
I take a sip of wine, red and full, with slight cherry notes. “Perfect,” I say.
You give me a wink before turning away to finish dinner.
We eat together at our small table, sitting across from each other in the only two chairs. Dessert is a warm fudge brownie with creamy vanilla bean gelato and perfectly sweet strawberries. We do the dishes side by side, me washing and you drying. When the kitchen is all cleaned up, we gather some blankets and sit on the rocking chairs on the porch.
It’s gotten dark, and we’re gazing at the stars as we sip our toddies, our fingers warmed through by the mugs.
“There,” you say, tilting your chin up towards the sky. “Make a wish.”
I turn to look at you instead of the shooting star, and your eyes are closed, long, dark lashes skimming your cheeks.
‘I made my wish,’ I think, ‘And the answer was you.’
You are the psithurism, the soothing susurrus for my soul.
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This was kismet. I looked up psithurism, remembering how I looked up the word susurrus in my late son Elliot's brilliant writing. And there he was at the end of your serene musing. Thank you. His birthday is Sunday. 💜
It is a joy to read a meditation on things that replenish our souls.