Winter:

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Seasons Series.

Submitted: November 06, 2015

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Submitted: November 06, 2015

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In the air hung an atmosphere of ambiguity, as the sky was the colour of milk and the grass had been licked by dew.
The clouds whispered and gargled upon the sallow hills, a morose taste on the wind
that seethed through holes in cracked window frames and loose roof tiles.
I pulled on the skin that swayed upon my bottom lip until it bled,
the familiar taste fired the kindling in my head. The sky began to fall.
The wet, clumped, robust snow that dissolved into the floor and turned gelatinous
underfoot. It hadn't snowed in over three years, from what I remembered.

I fumbled the key with raw fingers and clammy palms, and as the silver meandered through the lock
its laugh echoed as I struggled to turn it. I fell inwards to the cave of the house I thought I left behind.
There never was a carpet in the house; dad didn't like the way the fabric rubbed upon the oak.
Tired and dusky, with a scent of decay and rust, the house had depleted
through years of corruption, turned to months of monotony, to reach eventual decomposition,
the foundations of wood and brick had weakened and splintered like the enamel of a nail
and the roof was exhaling dust and rubble. The falling clusters of stone didn't bruise as deep as the memories that fell with them.

The windows were fogged and opaque, it was just as well, we never used to open the curtains anyway,
the only reminder of the outside was the constant breeze through the chimney, and the rapping of naked branches
against a double layer of glass. It was the metronome to the only song I ever knew,
I can't remember the words.
I was careful where to step, as the wailing of the wood sounded all too heavy, in such a fragile frame 
of scaffold and cement, rocks were the diamonds wherein we held out our left hand.
The once teal walls were now a powdery hue similar to the arctic clouds, peeling and hanging
from single slithers of paste, the walls seemed so delicate. That day in a hot June
when I punched the cement in rage. Three broken knuckles and a fractured wrist.
The bandage only stayed on for hours.

I couldn't risk going upstairs, not this time at least,
the chandeliers looked too frail in the shadow of the winter sun, 
and the steps would hum the funeral tune as I stepped up each one. Supressed memories were crawling
past my skull towards the front of my eyes. They teased me not to go into my room,
the one with the broken doorhinge and the triple lock, the one with the bed 
next to the window that was always shut. The one with the clothes probably still plastered
over the floor. Maybe next time. Maybe next time I could.

I turned and for the third, fourth time made my way back through the arch.
The sodden leaves had collected upon the porch again, and upon the old swinging chair
that was only ever used when visitors came. The garden rake was always propped next to it,
as it swung with the breeze, the memories mocked in chorus.

Maybe next time I could make it past the second step of the indoor stairs.
Maybe next time I won't leave thinking, maybe next time.


© Copyright 2020 AlanaLouiseMcDermott. All rights reserved.

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