by Spencer Valentine
I tread lightly on shag carpet.
An ornate room. Neatly decorated. I trace a hand, often called delicate, over an equally delicate ivory vase, my fingers threading each nook of its lipped rim. Imperfections, as described by their creator, but I love to touch them.
Walking forward, I feel a library of book spines. In a scentless air, I recognize that smell relegated to old books, the venerable leather accounting more for memory than any printed page. I linger on a familiar ribbed back and remember.
He used to read to me.
My head in his lap, he would read of all things. The ceiling fan would make me shiver until he pulled me closer. For the life of me, I cannot remember a single title, but I know too well how I felt. One could say I know how each book feels if only for the characters’ voices, the changes in cadence, and the physical contact he added. Maybe I knew the world through him.
The carpet beneath my feet shifts to hardwood, its stiff support not unlike his romance. Not too gentle. Not desired to be so. It, he, like the wood beneath me, fulfilled its purpose without my ever seeing it.
A breeze gusts about my face, mocking my short peregrination. In my youth, I wanted to be the wind, travelling wherever, whenever, meeting and knowing all in infinity. Now my life feels long enough.
Perhaps too long. I pity the wind, eternally damned to loss.
My legs give out, and I feel what will be bruises meet my knees. I feel tears trace down my cheeks. One knows I’ve felt too much.
I pity the wind. It has felt too much.
Barnard Street Tattler 