The sky had all but cleared, a tired haze hung in place of the vigorous billowing clouds that had flourished overhead only hours ago. I squinted involuntarily in the light as he walked me to the door.
"Thanks..." I ventured.
"You're welcome." He said, before I could continue.
In the shade of the porch I didn't have to squint as I watched him turn back to the truck. I couldn't wait anymore. It had bothered me all the way back, I couldn't stop thinking about it, and it was going to make me crazy.
"Michael," There was more urgency in that than I meant to grant. He turned around. "Last night—or, or this morning—" I stuttered until he cut me short.
"You're welcome, Marie." He said without smiling. And then Michael Bridge got in his truck, and drove away.
I stood there until he disappeared before, numb and suddenly alone, I turned back to the house.
The emptiness from the street crept over me as I fumbled with my key in the lock. The door swung smoothly on its aging hinges; and the loneliness of my old home, devoid of light and company on a breezy winternoon, struck me with a surprising wave of pain.
I stumbled through the hall toward the room that had once been mine, searching for some warmth or familiarity to salve the ache in my chest; it came from a night-light in that bedroom, sputtering and flickering with age, singing to the shadows that danced on the walls and ceiling above.
There was a sort of sanctity to the place, everything sat where I'd left it three years before. Except for the things that had been moved when I went to the hospital. A few books were missing, pictures, they'd taken my lamp and the old tv to 'Laina's room... The bed was made, untouched since I'd left it; the same wrinkle across the center of the coverlet escaped my hand but not my eye.
Something about it kept me from resting on the bed. It felt as if I would disturb some peaceful ghost of myself, were I to upset the chaotic order I had left it in.
So I stole some blankets from the hall closet and spread them out on the floor, where I lay down.
I tried to write, but no sufficient words would come; lead hovered over paper— now and then scratching the surface by accident, but would leave nothing intelligible.
Finally, I just lay there, watching the shadows and the flickering night-light, and I guess I fell asleep.
"Thanks..." I ventured.
"You're welcome." He said, before I could continue.
In the shade of the porch I didn't have to squint as I watched him turn back to the truck. I couldn't wait anymore. It had bothered me all the way back, I couldn't stop thinking about it, and it was going to make me crazy.
"Michael," There was more urgency in that than I meant to grant. He turned around. "Last night—or, or this morning—" I stuttered until he cut me short.
"You're welcome, Marie." He said without smiling. And then Michael Bridge got in his truck, and drove away.
I stood there until he disappeared before, numb and suddenly alone, I turned back to the house.
The emptiness from the street crept over me as I fumbled with my key in the lock. The door swung smoothly on its aging hinges; and the loneliness of my old home, devoid of light and company on a breezy winternoon, struck me with a surprising wave of pain.
I stumbled through the hall toward the room that had once been mine, searching for some warmth or familiarity to salve the ache in my chest; it came from a night-light in that bedroom, sputtering and flickering with age, singing to the shadows that danced on the walls and ceiling above.
There was a sort of sanctity to the place, everything sat where I'd left it three years before. Except for the things that had been moved when I went to the hospital. A few books were missing, pictures, they'd taken my lamp and the old tv to 'Laina's room... The bed was made, untouched since I'd left it; the same wrinkle across the center of the coverlet escaped my hand but not my eye.
Something about it kept me from resting on the bed. It felt as if I would disturb some peaceful ghost of myself, were I to upset the chaotic order I had left it in.
So I stole some blankets from the hall closet and spread them out on the floor, where I lay down.
I tried to write, but no sufficient words would come; lead hovered over paper— now and then scratching the surface by accident, but would leave nothing intelligible.
Finally, I just lay there, watching the shadows and the flickering night-light, and I guess I fell asleep.
posted by Allison at 1:43 PM
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