Erika Mikkalo: Nanoseconds: Millions

Nanoseconds: Millions

She is a sand woman, and — the misfortune is
inevitable — will be eroded into nothingness by wind
or tide. The life expectancy of sand women is counted
in hours, or in some cases, minutes. There are
entities for which this might seem an eternity. A
single grain of sand might seem the size of a planet.
To an atom in the silicon molecule that composes the
grain, why, it’s a universe. As with the physical, so
with the temporal. But maybe we can preserve her form
by making a plaster cast of her. Of course, the
topmost layer of sand would not be an exact replica,
but it would be the best that we could do. Precise
replication is generally impossible. We could
photograph her from every possible angle. We could
make a documentary of her disintegration, the waves
first licking the soles of her feet, her curves
dispersing in submersion. Even if we scooped up the
sand and transported it to a stark white
climate-controled room: one with a humidity monitor in
a box on the wall and well-modulated lights to be
re-formed by a crack team of specially-trained
fabric-mask-wearing technical specialists working with
our painfully thorough documentation as a reference,
she would not be the same sand woman. The
juxtaposition of individual grains alone would vary
wildly, even if their attempt at verisimilitude was
perfection. It would not be their fault.

When they tried to make her again, they flayed their
fingers and put on latex gloves. They burned incense
and hit a small bronze gong. They sang a stirring
fight song. They stood in a circle and clasped hands
in prayer. Then they put the sand through a sieve, a
square of screen attached to a wooden frame, and got
to work. The tools included trowels, spatulas, molds,
spades, paintbrushes and a spray bottle.

With the assembled professionals, you’d think that
they could construct a proper replication. One that
looked exactly like the first version. They shoveled
the sifted sand into a vague human form, and then
outlined it with white cotton twine. The interior
corners of the working box were demarcated for
measurement, elevation and topography. A huge silver
half-dome surgical lamp extended from the ceiling.

The technicians eventually moved individual grains
with microscopic tweezers, specially designed devices
on hinged black enamel arms. These astronomically
expensive machines had diamond-polished
Swiss-handcrafted quartz crystal lenses housed in zinc
and cylinders that resembled periscopes, handles on
either side. Sweat beaded on the team: obviously,
they could run no fans. (An assistant daubed the
director’s forehead with a sterile sponge.) An hour
was needed to recreate a single dimple on her cheek.

There is something miraculous in all attempts at
creation, even if mimicry, even if botched. Sand
women are noted for their oh-so-convenient
disposability and transportability, even if their
beauty is transient. There will always be teams to
put them back together again, if someone is willing to
underwrite the effort. Perhaps someday someone will
construct the ultimate mold: flexible, light, and
strong. Then we can walk down the dunes and make all
the women we want.

Poet's Biography:

Erika Mikkalo's writing received the Tobias Wolff Award for short fiction from The Bellingham Review, and has appeared in Nimrod, The 2nd Hand, Exquisite Corpse, The Beloit Poetry Journal, The Massachusetts Review, POM2, The Spoon River Poetry Review, The Columbia Poetry Review, The Notre Dame Review, The Texas Review and other publications.