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9.3.06
[ 563 views ] |
This river.
You're standing on that bridge in your hometown. You know, the one they bombed. Most people died then. Most everything died then. The fish in the water, they died. The plants that grow between the cracks in the street, they died. Your grandparents, they died too.
The fish swim beneathe you in the river. When the fish came back to life after the bomb people knew that things would be okay. You always dreamed of the fish after they were gone. They were the biggest loss for you. You didn't miss your grandparents, but you missed the fish.
Even now, standing in the rain on that bridge you don't know what you're doing there. You can't remember how you got there. This seems to happen a lot. You nod off then wake up in a different place then where you started, but the end result is always the same. You're on that bridge, watching those same fish.
Your heartaches in the summer when the heat hits the city and the water of the river inches downward until it's almost too hard for the fish too swim. You want to cry but the tears refuse to come. You've dried up for the summer too.
Now it's the fall. It's just beginning to get cold. The rains have started and you're back on this bridge. Everytime you wake up here you try to retrace your steps back to where to come from. Were you in the grocery store buying noodles? Were you at your desk at work? This time you were at home. You were in bed.
Your bed is small. The sheets, immaculate white. The last thing you remember is laying naked under those same sheets and staring at the bare lightbulb fixed to the ceiling with the pull cord dangling down. She is next to you and is running her fingers along the tiny and soft hairs on your stomach. Her black hair mixes with yours. Her dark eyes are burning into yours, screaming look at me. She whispers, "It helps with the lights out" and you blink out.
Most of the times when you nod out she is there. You're beginning to wonder if she has something to do with it.
You're soaked to the bone now. Who knows how long you've been standing there on that bridge in the rain with your hands gripped on the railing. Your knuckles are white from tension. Or maybe it's just poor circulation. You've been told you have that.
The rain grows harder now and pummels the surface of the river. The fish scatter to find shelter. Their home if now being bombed. You decide that it's time to go home too.
As you make your way across the bridge you wonder if she's still going to be in your bed, waiting for you to turn the lights out.
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