O, O, O...
said worrying. Then Boredom settled down into the kitchen, and the the knife cutting through carrot made the sound that a knife makes when it cuts through an onion through a pepper through cabbage. When the world (everything,) is under a blanket, it is impossible to feel intimate with anything at all, because there is too much detail. The cloud were a blanket. Worrying finally realized it had no place in the kitchen and left. What a relief for everyone involved it started raining.
When his father came smiling and dripping home, he glowed by the fire. His father was always coming home, he never left home, but was always coming home. When the gray of the short winter days came, his father became much more intimate with his surroundings because they were all he knew, he wasn't ignorant, he was so aware and then content.
"I am not unlike my father," the words spoke to a spice rack that came from places he'd never seen,but that was before Worrying left. when Worrying left, there was a solemn serenity within Finn. and he realized he was quite unlike his father.
down from the cliffs, the sea mangled in itself and magnetised the oceans of Finn's heart to churn and lapse and digress as well. Down, from the widow, onto the street. The sea of the people ready to catch the rain in their hair pushed and pulled nothing within him. Happiness had walked past outside his apartment door, but had not even knocked, and was accompanied by the managerie of other wet sentiments that had drowned and were slowly draining out of Finn's heart.
1 comment:
and over and tried to find you then tried to move on then tried to forget but i can't. please delilah come home i don't know what more i can say. i miss you on the swing, in the garden, watching the butterflies. i will give you anything everything just come back please. i'm not angry, i don't care why you left. but i can't wait anymore and
The familiar red ink ran slightly as it mixed with Delilah's fresh tears. Her hands shook as she read His words. She traced the rushed pen strokes with her index finger and felt His own shaking hands as He scribbled the letter on the scrap paper. She smiled as she took the back of her hand to her cheekbone and tried to remember where her suitcase was
whoo.whoo.whoo.whoo.whoo.
Delilah blinked her dry eyes furiously as she awoke to blaring sirens coming from her window. She raised her imprinted cheek from the plush red pillow of her couch and looked down at the unopened envelope wrapped in her five fat fingers. Body stiff from an unexpected sleep, she pulled herself over the edge of the couch to look out the window. The day had been exceedingly miserable for the season, and bits of ice mingled with the tiny wet droplets on her window sill. A black van scurried beneath her as the sirens began to die away, and Delilah remembered where she was.
The letter.
It had been days since she recovered it from her tiny metal cubby. She had attempted to open it 47 times but couldn't go through with it. She tried to keep her body occupied with the usual menial tasks she could complete around Washington Heights, but Delilah's mind was focused on the small, unopened envelope resting on the kitchen counter, dozing on the coffee table, waiting on her bed. But every time she found herself ready to dig her plump finger beneath the envelope flap and shred the silencing seal, she began imagining what she wished it said. She could not bear to be disappointed.
So she never opened it.
Today had been no different. Delilah eyed the letter in the quickly fading suffocated sunlight for what felt like the millionth time. The corners were beginning to fold and brown slightly. The edges were becoming discolored from the oils of her fat fingers. The red of the ink, however, remained vibrant and His handwriting unmistakable. She was tempted to put the envelope up to window to get a clue as to its contents, but she could not even manage that.
Instead she looked out of her small window without any obstruction but the bleak, polluted atmosphere of Washington Heights. She watched the people busying themselves below, playing her familiar game. She watched the peculiar foreign man from her building walk off towards Barton street before changing direction and coming back the other way – 24 cracks. A younger girl with more years on her face that on her driver's license held on to her hat as she made her way to the Diner Royale – 8 cracks. The beautiful basement tenant did not let the threat of sleet faze her as she walked, grocery bags in hand, back home – 5 cracks. Perfect.
Like a dandelion sprouting from the crack in the sidewalk, life managed to survive in this hopeless offshoot of greater Baltimore. Moving, breathing life.
Marginally inspired, Delilah made a decision.
Sunday.
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