Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Where you sat
There was an awkwardly placed chair in the
living room. Only three of us knew that
it covered a gruesome blood stain. We
played charades all night. We pretended
things were different. We smiled with
hooks through our cheeks and attached to strings that dangled from the ceiling
like torn spider webs. The humidity gave
everything a moldy smell. The air itself
seemed dead and rotting. These were
supposed to be the vivacious summers of our youth but no one felt very young. We were twenty something and already
silver-headed from our toil, poverty, and fear for our many precarious
situations. Our lives were reflected in
mirrors tossed from the twentieth story of a condemned building. From the porch at strange hours we watched
puffs of white smoke emerge from a distant alley like ghosts. I imagined us beacons on the shore of the
river Styx .
Always in our pockets we kept two coins for the ferryman who had taken a
wrong turn down 1st
street and was late again.
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