By the Hearth

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic

Sometimes it’s better not to dream

I pull into the drive and sit for a moment as the day washes over me. I think how lucky I am as I see the sun set behind our home. Walking up to the door I feel the brisk air ignite my skin and what a pleasant contrast when I enter and feel the warmth brace against it. The fireplace is lit and between it and the aroma of whatever she made my soul leaps a little. As the oak burning warms my heart i see a plate still steaming on the counter of sausage and vegetables. It sits there simmering with a fork and beverage like time itself knew I was coming and arranged the future for me. I look left and right and see a naked foot extended from the couch. I walk over to see her curled asleep blissfully there by the firelight. I grab a small throw and pull it over her prostate body and kiss her forehead. Her hair brushes against my skin and I can smell her peace. She has the fragrance of everything good in life; the renewal of spring rain, the petricor of summer grass, the hearth side burning of autumn and the decay of winter. Pulling back her sleepy emerald eyes open and she smiles with adoration, I can feel the love and it’s this moment I feel everything in the universe I’ve wanted. Though nothing is perfect existence resonates with the sound of her voice and I know my creator smiled on me.
I wake my head uncomfortably on the steering wheel. Im still in my car exhausted from my day. The suns gone down and I realize I’ve been here nearly 45 minutes. Walking up to the house the lights are dark and the cold runs a shiver past me. My soul withers a little as I push open the door and my eyes scan the empty shadows of the rooms. There is such a deafening silence like nothing had ever lived here, though I had for many years. I walk by the empty couch and dank fireplace, to window to watch the day die and my spirit gives out. My loneliness manifest one singular tear pushing itself down my face, and I think back on how cruel my imagination is as the fog and mist roll on in, in the culdesac.

 

 


Submitted: May 02, 2021

© Copyright 2021 Jason Meikrantz. All rights reserved.

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