Dear Charlie,
I am writing this from a strange place. The scenery looks familiar but there is something different hiding behind the trees, or is it in the tall grass? The faint scratching and almost muted collisions of dangling vinyl pieces creep and curl around my ears. A redundant tic-toc from a clock could barely manipulate my lungs the way this stretched silence and seemingly random sound keeps me in suspense.
I dreamt of you last night. You were preoccupied. Like the cook of the kitchen, you had to attend to people around you and their demands. The girls were screaming outside. The crowds were breaking up and weakened by fermentation. Wearied from picking up doll parts scattered across the land, I stood in the living room across from you. Turning to me, standing as straight as you could, with a face that I had never seen before, you asked me to stay, knowing that I was looking for the door.
The movement was fast, then slow. You were taking care of business, while I was taking care of the sick. The movement was slow and fast. You were gone. The chatter was happy then loud and disturbing. My confusion ended with her scream, the girl with the permanent tear. I stoped in front of the glass entrance as she swung towards me from one high heel to a bare foot. Her make-up had dramatised her young face. Holding a shoe in her left hand she hit and hugged the sign-covered wall of the entrance. I knew why.
I ran passed her to the front of the building and through the parked cars only to see you sitting in the backseat of a truck being thrown back by the quick departure, your spine barely holding you up. That was the last time I saw you. The children were in a hurry. The truck drove off, making a sharp right turn into a traffic heavy street and then disappearing down the blind drop of the hill. I knew what was to come next, before the absence of screeching tires and the collision of flightless metal machines. I knew no end. I saw nothing but wasn’t blind. I pulled myself out of the scene before any image could be set in stone.
I wasn’t alone standing in that parking lot; your friend was there too. We miss you.
I am writing this from a strange place. The scenery looks familiar but there is something different hiding behind the trees, or is it in the tall grass? The faint scratching and almost muted collisions of dangling vinyl pieces creep and curl around my ears. A redundant tic-toc from a clock could barely manipulate my lungs the way this stretched silence and seemingly random sound keeps me in suspense.
I dreamt of you last night. You were preoccupied. Like the cook of the kitchen, you had to attend to people around you and their demands. The girls were screaming outside. The crowds were breaking up and weakened by fermentation. Wearied from picking up doll parts scattered across the land, I stood in the living room across from you. Turning to me, standing as straight as you could, with a face that I had never seen before, you asked me to stay, knowing that I was looking for the door.
The movement was fast, then slow. You were taking care of business, while I was taking care of the sick. The movement was slow and fast. You were gone. The chatter was happy then loud and disturbing. My confusion ended with her scream, the girl with the permanent tear. I stoped in front of the glass entrance as she swung towards me from one high heel to a bare foot. Her make-up had dramatised her young face. Holding a shoe in her left hand she hit and hugged the sign-covered wall of the entrance. I knew why.
I ran passed her to the front of the building and through the parked cars only to see you sitting in the backseat of a truck being thrown back by the quick departure, your spine barely holding you up. That was the last time I saw you. The children were in a hurry. The truck drove off, making a sharp right turn into a traffic heavy street and then disappearing down the blind drop of the hill. I knew what was to come next, before the absence of screeching tires and the collision of flightless metal machines. I knew no end. I saw nothing but wasn’t blind. I pulled myself out of the scene before any image could be set in stone.
I wasn’t alone standing in that parking lot; your friend was there too. We miss you.
Labels: Dear Charlie
