I walked out to my car, late, and the moon was full and high and bright and my breath rose like smoke.
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I was driving to work and pretty mad about it, then a long thin plank of styrofoam flew off the back of the truck one lane over, spinning fast and whiter than white as it rose in the blue, blue, blue sky, and it's probably still up there right now.
I got to touch butter, and then peanut butter, and watch the cocoa and butter and sugar and eggs turn into rich brown sparkly sweetness, and then we curled up and watched the wind whip the tall grass around, making shadow shapes on the garage wall like seaweed dancing under waves, and the house filled up with the smell of chocolate.
We sat on the porch, baking in the sun, and the sky was deep rich blue and the trees were orange and red and yellow and green and brown around us and I closed my eyes and watched the sun through my skin, warm and soft and red.
We were in the living room and the bright fall sunlight shone in through the big window and I was pouring water into the iron from a clear glass beaker, and the light lit up the beaker and sparkled on the water and filled up my eyes and I stood there watching it, half-lidded and soaking in the warmth of the sun.
It was cold and dark as I walked to the bus stop, sharp and biting, and I was so tired my face felt stiff and strange and my eyes wouldn't focus right, and then finally, finally I got home, and the soft warmth wrapped itself around me and the door shut out the noise, and I stood in the silent, empty kitchen and listened to the heat hush out of the register and saw that someone had cleaned the crumbs off the counters, and felt held.
I walked out the door to go to work, and all the leaves from the top of the tree were gone and there was light where no light had been, like waking up one morning to find that the roof is gone and there's sunlight and wind on your cheeks instead of cozy shadow.
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AuthorBitter Water
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. Archives
June 2019
Categories© Francie Nevill and Every Sweet Thing, 2017.
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