Death light
She didn't want to walk. The only thing she felt these days was the broken that had worked it's self all the way in; like a far reaching load straddling all sides, that then emerged in the many fallen lines upon her face. Lines that had formed the day of the blaze.
The house had burned evenly, charcoal to dead wood, in less than 45 minutes; till all had been spent, and left in a charred clearing, of dead space.
This morning, like all the others, using a well gloved hand as a barrier to shield against the light, not stopping as she approached; she tried to look away. But it was no use, it's absence dominated everything - a hollow evanescence calling all things in. Each day the fallen outline looked different. Each day a little less. The weather of course, and the towns folk, had carried most of it off; till what was left stood angled and defeated, like a ship wreck. The remains of her life, objects that she would occasionally recognise or glimpse in the newly patched fences of neighbours, or blown willy nilly to odd landings by the wind; these scattered pieces, unlike her, seemingly finding renewal and redemption and purpose; whilst each morning she would pass the site of the crime- not because she had to, but because there was no other way. And so each day, buttoned up in old sensible shoes, neat and shut up like some old maid; she battled to keep going, and then battled to keep all things in - hat on tight against the world as one defiant loose lock of wilful amber hair, fought to escape, and then stray away from her mourning. It was always the same- the drudgery of the low distant horizon, and another house where she earned a wage.
Later, She would return in the solace o the dark, pain obscured for another day. And it was then and only then, that she could fully bear to look past the silhouettes of old carbon blacked out falling beams; through an old square red door made of cherry wood, no longer there- towards all the things she used to be.. MB
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