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Monday, April 12, 2010

Interruption

Interruption: No one is home. Sorry. You turn back to the car that brought you, shrug. You think to yourself, They must be at church. I hope they’re at church. I want my daughter to be a God-fearing person. You walk down the sidewalk that my father, my real father, constructed. The woman in the car is restless; why did she give you a ride if your destination was not set in stone? You put on your best I’m-not-disappointed-because-I-never-tried-to-know-the-girl face and get back into her car. The heat from the blazing sun silently chokes you as you fumble to put down the window. Why is it so hard to push a button? The world turns red, red, red as the sun comes closer and the button disintegrates, right under your finger. You now know what it’s really like to feel alone, to know that the presence of what you want and need has mingled with yours at this very spot, and you can do nothing to reach out and grab it. Now you know how it feels to want something so fleeting, to sit by a phone that does not ring, to smile in the mirror that does not smile back, to greet the ghost of your past and only receive a cold stare in return.

I come home, only 5 minutes later.

I would have liked it to be this way.

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