Category: Writing

In the darkened room at the end of the hall, I stumble into her – nearly tripping over her skirt dangling on the floor. Her softness invites the weight of me. She’s quiet and receiving. She is a silky balm. She’s patient in her waiting. I’m tired and in love with my bed.

Nothing moves in this creamsicle sky. Trees stand resolute. I crack the back door to hear sounds other than the electric light hum from above the kitchen sink. Sound is a type of movement – the birds are still alive. A molten sun appears – too bright to have any shape. Good morning, sun.

Eyes and thoughts drift like falling clouds. This cast of characters gathered ‘round toss glances like stolen candy bars. The woman in the corner whispers to her friends. Her lips repeat yellow number five three times slowly. The tall man ducks below the exit sign as he enters through the swinging doors.

I see my image twice in the orangish-red mirrors of my sunglasses. The curve distorts the coffee mug, makes it look like a TV on a stand behind me. My hand, near the lenses, resting on the computer is gargantuan and elongated. The clear light from the window refracts a sickly yellow.

This isn’t real. The man inching his silver pickup truck back and forth as he parallel parks. The blurry family member talking to me on the front porch. The white ceiling fan with the slight wobble. The red can of Coke sweating in the heat. The plastic webbing of the rocking chair.

A gang of toddlers run wild on a sunny hillside. They chase a yellow and orange soccer ball with dinosaur decal panels. Three boys race in wobbly circles like a small swarm. Legs and arms tangle when they fall in a heap giggling and squirming. They tornado back towards the picnic tables.

The last sip of coffee is cold. The sky is gray, and the breeze is soft. My verbs are softer. Being versus action… this is a morning of little action and mostly being. Quiet observations in the half-light of an overcast dawn. Things are. The ground is wet. The birds are squawking.

Dark trees dance in the gusty wind. The storm lights up the distant sky. It’s late. In the half-awake sofa dream, a man adjusts the rigging on a sinking sailboat. I want to watch the lightning. Instead, I only catch the thunder. Trees tilt back and forth. Heavy eyes. Lightning. Thunder crack.

Isolated raindrops plink the metal table. A steady shower starts – not heavy, but consistent. The sun is out. I move to the windows looking for rainbows. For no reason, I try to remember when a friend passed away. I can’t find it online. I think about him anyway. Eventually, the rain stops.   

A blood-red sun burns in the haze that colors the mountains blue. This is the long drive home in the summer evening light. I arrive just after dark. The house is empty in all the spots the dog would occupy. The house is empty in all the spots the dog would occupy.

Midday sun and sea breeze. Gulls stalk and squawk and soar away. In a low-slung chair I squint at the horizon, bulldoze piles of sand with my feet. Everything is muffled by waves – the plane overhead, the children screaming in play, the sirens in the distance. The shells are mostly broken here.

The mix of stale cigarette smoke and mid-level cigars smells like desperation and bravado. One more hand, one more pull of the slot arm. Everyone here is one hand away from winning big. The lights dazzle. There’s club music in the background punctuated by bells and electronic chimes. Welcome to Atlantic City