My Words

  • My Words

She awoke knowing there had been nightmares, but blessedly not remembering their narrative. The clouds had dropped patiently into her morning and she wondered if they sensed how often she was hungry. It had not always been like this, the sky a roadmap folded into itself, the wind restless and jealous. There were days she awakened and could almost remember how to smile, days when she still believed that better ones might lay ahead. The moist breeze felt vague and buttery. She leaned in to lick a thin film of it that had gathered at the edge of her wrist and found it left her wanting more. What was being asked of her, she wondered? Was suffering a tithe that you paid as a down payment on salvation? And, if so, shouldn’t she have been saved years ago? She would settle for just feeling saved, or better yet, merely believing salvation was still possible. She rose from the blankets, pads of papers, old pillows, and assorted flotsam from which she built her nest on the ground each night. Some nights were softer than others, but she never left the ground. The train whistle blew then and she tried to remember that quote from the book of poetry she borrowed from the library and later lost, something about the longing being not in the train whistle but in you. She never tired of hearing it, the whistle that is…the longing was a sound she could just as well do without. It was a sound not unlike a hammer makes just before it hits the wall. She knew that sound more intimately than she had ever known anything.


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