This Is Where I Come From

Down the hill where we used to sled, now filled with tall grass dripping with sunlight and chirping grasshoppers and the smell of earth, past the row of leafy trees I used to start at longingly from the new rubber turf field, memories of a life spent are spread out like sweet marmalade jam on wheat toast, except they move and breath because I gave them life.  I used to sit behind those windows, at big black tables covered in papers and numbers and bunsen burners and thinking and deep, laughing love, when freedom, a rumbling gritty yellow, dragged itself slowly up the drive, and the floodgates were opened, and we poured out onto hot macadam ringing with calling voices, car horns, and the rolling boom boom of basses turned up too high.  My car like a bastion of independence standing tall above the rest, too big to be anything but silly, filled with the smell of morning tea gone cold and family car trips long past, beating to the drum of my latest musical obsession.  You, in the passenger seat with your hands full of dirty coffee mugs, bouncing and jittery, making that face you make when you think I’m not looking; you’re going to work, or home, or the seats are covered in the sprawling bits of my soul that I’ve handed over in utter, agonizing joy to eternal love, and we’re going for ice cream at Leo’s, or somewhere else spectacularly unimportant because the bits of my soul are together again, at least most of them.

Later, under pensive starlit skies spread over the darkening fields, quiet strumming and soft voices catching on the wayward sparks and mixing in with goopy marshmallow, the feeling rises within me once again, pressing in on all sides and seeping into my blood, making my heart ache like day-old wounds, and filling my eyes with tears.

I stand in the dark, sleeping house.  I listen to the ticking clock.  And I let them fall.


It took a long time from there, to get here.  And he sits across from me, dark black ink tracing patterns on white skin, cigarette held loosely, smoke curling, distracted.  When the wind picks up again, it will blow him away into tiny pieces of glass, and I will be left wondering, who am I?


~ by followingsherlockholmes on October 13, 2012.

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