I blame this post on my love of Poe and Browning. I am always amazed by their ability to jump into the minds of some eerie and slightly (perhaps) disturbed person. To be perfectly honest, I'm not sure how much creativity this actually took for Poe. He was probably mostly insane himself. I'd like to think my thinking process works more like Browning: mostly sane, and a bit creative. I wrote this on Friday and finally had the time to edit it today. So, enjoy.
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This morning, the leaves crunched underfoot and the breeze was so dry it tasted of dust on my tongue. It had been forever since the rain, and I am glad it came today. Can you hear the refreshing sound of the raindrops tink-tinking on the roof above? Close your eyes. Does it not sound like the rhythm of tears. If you look here, sir, at the windows, you can follow their paths traveling southward in every direction—a silent mockery of the journeys, which I have never taken. The rain mocks me, and, yet, I am thankful for its presence. It washes away that which happened; it cleanses the quiet calm of ignorance which lies here. Oh, where does the story begin, you ask. A month, no, a year it has been, or perhaps a week. Time stands still, as you know, with such events. Or, perhaps it erases itself in one quick swoosh of the wrist. The slate is now clean. The mind is now free.
If only redemption was this easy.
She sat here with me upon this porch whenever last the leaves were falling. She sat there, she did, in that rocking chair, just there, and we sat rocking two by two, arm in arm. Her hand upon my hand. Her golden hair now greying twisted with her own delicate fingers into a expertly crafted French chignon. Each day, it was the same: beautiful, perfect, effortless. Not one strand sat casually on that head. Each hair knew its place, as I knew mine. We had been ordered, and for that sweet smiling face that once existed, (and, perhaps, we wished would someday return) we must obey.
"It’s warm today," she said.
"Yes," I replied.
"Creek crack, Creek crack" mumbled the rocking chair.
"A cup of tea," she said.
"Yes," I replied.
"Creek crack, Creek crack" mumbled the rocking chair.
An old hound wandered toward us. I knew not from where he had come. He smelt of sadness, sickness, and thirst. He nuzzled his head near our clasped hands. I moved to calm his pleading eyes, and to pet his weary head. Perhaps, I thought to myself, I should go inside and cut up some food, or at least get some cool fresh water for it to drink. I removed my hand from her grasp and looked into his lonely eyes. He spoke without speaking. But the moment did not last.
"It’s probably diseased," she said.
"Yes," I said
"Creek crack, Creek crack" mumbled the rocking chair.
The poor dog stared.
"Looks like rain," she said.
"Yes," I said
"Creek crack, Creek crack" mumbled the rocking chair.
Her hand reached out again for mine. Our knitted fingers meticulously intertwined, so that sometimes I forgot which were hers and which were mine. We sat like that for a bit of time. When I looked back up, the dog was gone. The breeze had turned cooler and ruffled the hair on the back of my neck as a few clouds glided into the clear blue sky. I tensed my shoulders and willed it to be warm again, but the sky had darkened and begun to cackle at me. Shots of electricity bounced between the clouds and flashed our faces in bursts of light. The air was still dry.
“Looks like rain,” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
"Creek crack, Creek crack" mumbled the rocking chair.
"A sweater," she said.
"Yes," I said
"Creek crack, Creek crack" mumbled the rocking chair.
I stood to get her best blue sweater, which she always stored in the front hall closet on the blue hanger next to the red sweater on the red hanger. The blue sweater is her outside sweater. She would wear nothing other than her blue outside sweater. After 30 years I know such things.
Then I opened the door, yes, that door right there. Please don’t interrupt as I tell my story, it confuses me immensely. Then I opened the door, as I said, and I saw the sky had opened up. It started to rain as she said it would. She was right as she always is. I placed my hands on the cold screen door handle and closed it silently. Yet, she must have heard, because she turned to look at me slowly, her eyebrows slightly cocked. And, as she turned, the lightning crackled, so that I saw her face at once outlined. Something was not right, I knew.
Then I opened the door, yes, that door right there. Please don’t interrupt as I tell my story, it confuses me immensely. Then I opened the door, as I said, and I saw the sky had opened up. It started to rain as she said it would. She was right as she always is. I placed my hands on the cold screen door handle and closed it silently. Yet, she must have heard, because she turned to look at me slowly, her eyebrows slightly cocked. And, as she turned, the lightning crackled, so that I saw her face at once outlined. Something was not right, I knew.
A breeze that blew so lazily, yes, the same that had chilled the night, had loosed a strand of her golden-gray hair. It floated free and taunted me. Oh, it would not let me be. I could not look away from that strand as it danced beautifully.
“Hand me my sweater,” she said.
“Yes,” I said, but my hand did not move.
Silence from the rocking chair.
“Now,” she said.
“No,” I said.
She stared at me and I at her within a chilling silence. The rocking chair did not respond, and neither did that woman. Now you see, dear officer, why I sit alone.
“So, she's gone away,” you say.
“Yes, of course,” I say, "there is obviously no other explanation."
“Creek crack, Creek crack." Betrayal from the rocking chair.
