Wrote the following piece nearly three years ago. Things change in sometimes drastic measure. What strikes me about this work is the voice in it. I recognize myself here. Young as I was. Young and idealistic and in love.
My how things change.
We woke up together, as we usually do. I, ever the pushy one, rattled your tired bones until you stirred just as I had moments ago. We were surrounded by our things in our tiny little bedroom. Clothes littered the floor next to orphaned sandals and boots. Pieces of our wardrobe made up the bulk of the mess, though little notebooks and paper artifacts dated months before did make an occasional appearance. You didn’t mind the chaos. Neither did I.
You rose first from our little nest. I was keen to remain nestled in to the heat you had left behind, but the sounds of activity coming from the kitchen were enough to wrest me away. I followed in with my head down, naked and moody.
Our kitchen, what a place.
Wooden paneling as dark as dusk covered the walls from floor to ceiling, effectively barring the morning light from penetrating too far inside. I remedied this quickly by throwing open the back door, our portal into another realm. My favorite kind of light, the type that warms and awakens the world, bathed our sad little dining space, turning it into a paradisiacal dreamland. I left the door open to the outdoors so that the choir of birds could be heard ever more clearly. I remember smiling, satisfied.
Together we would go through the motions of our learned routine. 1/2 Cup of oats in the microwave, teapot full of tap water set to boil, dishes from the night before haphazardly scrubbed by impatient hands. After all of the steps of our imaginary list had been checked, we took our meals to our table below the lone kitchen window. We sipped our coffee, our eyes wandering from each other’s faces to the two bright green lawn chairs positioned just beyond the backdoor. The sun rendered them into glowing green beacons that demanded our attention. I dug my phone out from the robe I donned only moments ago and snapped a photo.
“We’ll remember this.”
Our cat, an individual in his own right, sauntered into the shot. He knew my intentions. I smiled again as I snapped a shot of him looking back towards us with one foot out the door. The symbolism struck me and I think it struck you too. How many more mornings did we have in this place?
Far too many, certainly not enough.
Skarface 