she picks up a hand mirror
suddenly there are no reflections
no remembrances
no bookmarks
nothing at all but fragile glass words
she leaves
walks to
the bank
the library
the drugstore
the supermarket
returning with only a few items:
one oil removing mud face mask
one audio book
some weekend cash
baby carrots
chopped spinach
bread
and a package of sunflower biscuits
the street is dark and quiet
except for a screaming man
across the street
in a bus shelter
his arms flailing
she walks faster
eyes scanning the immediate area
for signs of others walking
there is no one around
even the basketball courts
have no players
she looks down at her feet
new gray and white sports socks
orange Keds
she picks up the pace
eyeing the freshly-trimmed hedges
trimmed unevenly
the man’s screams
eventually drowned out
by a sudden surge
of noisy traffic
arriving home
she notices that
her neighbours’ children
are no longer playing tag
on the front lawn
though it is still quite early
such a strange night
passing through the lobby
she has a few words with security
requests that he make a phone call
on behalf of the screaming man
then heads upstairs
takes the staircase
hoping the six stories will benefit her
each with a beginning, middle and ending
but of course there is only a middle
she turns the key in the lock
turns on the light
undresses
puts on a soft night gown
makes coffee
reads about the benefits of white tea
takes her stomach pill
her pain pill
puts in her eye drops
sets the alarm for nine
knowing all too well
that she will awaken at
two, at four, then again at seven
or something like that
sitting at the table
she thinks of earlier on that day
how children had found a
well-feathered bird’s nest on the ground
how they had thrown it back and forth
laughing gleefully
as for the birds
come to think of it
she’d seen no birds at all
no gulls, no pigeons, no sparrows
no butterflies
only the tiniest of ants
feasting on bread crumbs
the words logical illusions
come to mind
she dismisses them
the words
logical exclusion
come to mind
she ponders this for a while
then stretches out
her head resting on a cold, plump pillow
she awakens at two
and again at four-thirty
her thoughts free
of all but fragile glass words
“affair…”
“i’ never had one of those,” she thinks to herself
“if the required word had been faithful, i could have written much”
“faithful…it has such a beautiful ring to it”
she ponders the next word, expectation
a tear falls from her eye
at least she has something to post now
by mary ann blinkhorn
mypenandme 
You must be logged in to post a comment.