Monday, September 24, 2007

Home

It’s Sunday night and she’s sitting propped up against two pillows in her old bedroom.

Of course it’s very different now. But if she closes her eyes, it is the way it used to be.
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The drums start slow and hesitant. Then they grow stronger, more powerful. When the wind catches them it's even louder. It's the marching band practicing at her old high school across the street.

She opens her eyes and smiles. Sage green walls and carpet. The flowery, thick comforter over her on the bed under one window.

A blue electric typewriter sitting on the desk in the corner under the other window.

A wall of books to the left in the closet, organized alphabetically. Judy Blume. Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Madeline L’Engle. Laura Ingalls Wilder.

There’s a stereo on the dresser flanked by two big speakers on the floor. A smoky gray lid over the turntable. The click click click sound of the 8-track player finding the next set of songs. And the big beveled tuner dial - heavy and hesitating as it moves from country to rock to pop.

She’s on her stomach across the bed reading a new album cover and singing along with the songs. The Police. Devo. Queen. Prince. Bob Seger.

The phone rings soft in the corner and it’s Dannette or Lisa or Amy or Denise. Later, in high school, it’s boys – David or Joe or John.
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There’s always a book on the nightstand. Stephen King for some unfathomable reason.

More books on the shelf under the nightstand. Maybe a diary hidden behind.

In the drawer, small wooden 3-dimensional puzzles she did as a kid. The classic cube. A sphere. And the impossible elephant.
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She’s on her back under a boy named Jamie. Her family is away for the day and she’s kissing – serious kissing – for the First Time Ever. Led Zeppelin comes on the radio and it’s a perfectly perfect moment that will last forever.

Or maybe it’s just the memory that will last forever because the boy (who couldn’t be farther from perfect) doesn’t make it much beyond that hot, sweaty, silly afternoon.
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Now it’s almost midnight.

There’s a train whistle blowing. It’s urgent yet big and comforty since it’s the same train that rolls through every night around this time.

She’ll sleep well here tonight. She always does.
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I am listening to: Led Zeppelin – D’Yer Mak’er
I am reading: HP 6
And I am: Home

2 comments:

msmoo1 said...

I sat here at work reading your blog and from out of nowhere tears started flowing.....not those little weepy out of the far corners of your eyes kind of tears, but the BIG crocodile kind that flop down onto your shirt that you had as a kid when your best friend hurt your feelings...it took me a couple of minutes to search my mind for the why of the tears and I can now report that the reasons are two-fold....the unbridled joy for you that you are still able to go home and be surrounded by your childhood and the sorrow for me that I cannot.

tot

CRUSTYBEEF said...

Now THIS is BEAUTIFUL!!!
I love seeing this side of you-just so raw and passionate!
Always,
Crusty~
LOVED The detail-LOVED IT!!
you really should consider writing your fulltime thing..of all people, you could make it happen!