refuging
Shuffling across the street a young boy, no older than six, held on tight to the lollipop from the machine. This, of course, was back when machines sold lollipops and boys were allowed to shuffle, alone, down the streets of our city. There was something about this boy that made him look older than he was. The furrow of his brow or the way he stamped his feet to knock the snow off his boots.
It springs open and she catches it before it hits her in the face. These things always seemed to be broken--either the spring doesn't work at all or the spring works too well. This spring had obviously been stretched out beyond its original length, otherwise it wouldn't have hit her in the face so forcefully. The clown was old and worn, its red nose worn to a burnt copper.
Dense, like a cake that baked too long in the oven. He sat at the kitchen table, staring at his hands, hoping that she'd come home soon. He got to her house just before midnight, thinking he could persuade her to let him in. But the door was unlocked, and the house was empty, except for the small orange cat hiding under the bed. He wanted to remember her how she was when he last saw her. June 10, 2009.
Helplessly, she fell to the ground, sobbing. The time was past. She had run out of options. Sitting on the curb before this happened, she watched the taxi drivers speed by, oblivious to her tears. Tomorrow, she would trade in this body, this mind, this life, for something bigger. Death? Maybe sooner.