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I’ve been searching for a passage that I read weeks ago. I can see the font size, the paragraph, the white space, the light above and below the words. Strings that dangle in my consciousness. Yet, despite my end of day Google searches, I’ve come up empty. It goes something like this:
People ask you: “How are you doing?” You turn on the auto-reflex-reflux. You pound the drums with your sticks and dust up dregs. You don’t want others to know, but Life is Good. Very good actually. So, why? Why lead with the dark?
She stands at the turn of Exit 10. The front end of the last mile of my morning commute. The entire elapsed time is less than five seconds, tops. I turn the corner, I look for her, and I’m gone. And she’s gone.
She’s standing with other early morning commuters waiting for the Bus.
Correction.
She stands alone and apart, while the others are huddled near the stop. Others are shuffling, looking down at their smart phones, taking puffs on their cigarettes, watching smoke rings burn off in the early morning mist.
She’s stoic. No cigarette. No smartphone. Her hands are tucked deep into her pant pockets. Her eyes, those eyes, they never steal a look at passing traffic, or me.
Each morning, every morning, it’s a re-run of the same five-second performance. The tattered dreamcatcher that hangs from her mirror – – has failed her yet again. She stands barefooted on a cold floor, whispering a count of fierce strokes with her hair brush, readying herself for her walk to the bus stop.
I finish my day. TGIF. I stop at the red light next to the bus stop waiting to enter I-287. It’s quiet. It’s still. It’s empty. I leave work and the bus stop behind, but not Her.
I pull up to our house. Susan is sitting on the front porch with Zeke. Zeke’s tail is swishing back and forth with anticipation.
“Long Day?”
“No. Good Day. Great to be Home!”
Notes:
- Portrait Source: malariaconsortium
- Related Posts: Driving Series.
Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.
Image may be NSFW.Clik here to view.
