Here and there the piles of clutter threaten to grow and overwhelm me again. I sit in a flannel nightgown listening to a distant roar that could be a trash truck except for the day of the week. The neighborhood resists awakening. Only my dog barks. A quieter hum speaks from the basement, of winter nights and the fireplace which must be cleaned if I plan to use it. It has sat idle for the last few years. Perhaps finally I will set a match to crumpled paper and kindling again to let its flame roar high.
Now I see the pale glow of sunlight on a brick wall across the street, dappled and daring against the shadows. A line of stairs marches to the cracked sidewalk on which a cat stalks something in the leaves. From my window, I watch it all, even the ghosts darting across my yard with their makeshift capes flying from their small shoulders. A slender woman led by her blue-grey border collie moves noiselessly beyond the pane in front of which I stand. I see her nearly every day -- narrow frame, razored hair, round black eyeglasses. She holds her eyes forward. She does not know that I am watching; or if she knows, she pays no heed. We learn this way of walking in our solitary world.
Thanksgivings of my past crowd round, begging to be told. Cornish hens in a fire-fed pot-belly stove; names pulled from a Christmas-gift hat; chores divided by eight who scurry around the house when the bell rings. I've talked of them so many times. Each day of thanks; each turkey; each plate of pumpkin pie. I shrug them off and keep my vigil.
Now the sun crests the line of houses to the east and sheds a fuller light on the scene outside. Traffic increases on my little street. Pale leaves drift through the fragile air, shed from the heavy crown of the maples overhead. I cross my arms and hold my body motionless. I stare through the window with its broken sash and sagging shade. I could not tell you what I think will come. I only know that I still wait. I still wait.
Mugwumpishly tendered,
Corinne Corley
No comments:
Post a Comment