A piece of Tyvek paper flaps in the wind on the third level of the new construction down my street. It is a cold sound, lonely, telling.
The red lights blink back and forth, back and forth, in balanced rhythm with the slice of steel wheels of the train delaying me from getting home. It is a pulse, loud and urgent.
A receipt is snagged by a leaf in the puddle along the curb. It is out of place, on a journey.
I turn back, think I should have held the door open for the elderly man. My arms were full, I was a moment too late. I sigh at the missed opportunity.
A drop of water on my windshield connects with another and another, a stream across the glass. I watch the streams form, connect, separate. They look like veins. I feel detached.
She curls on her side, her left hand on the pillow, palm facing upward. She sleeps. Peaceful and painless.
I sit beside her, watch her chest rise and fall. To be sure. Loving and fearful.
3 comments:
beautiful. i know you are hurting in all this alison, but i still see an amazing light in you. prayers.
Your writing move me. When I read these posts, I almost 'feel' what you are describing. How lucky you are to be able to express yourself the way you do.
Your way with words impresses me almost as much as the tender heart that beats in your chest and feels these things you describe so well.
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