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Lethe

The air, crisp and cool, grasps at my hands attempting to negate the heat emanating from the coffee mug. Bright reds and yellows mingle amongst one another with the rising of the sun. Birds chat away. Dogs yap aloud. Cars meander about. I listen to it all sitting and waiting on my synapses to fully recover from rest. The beautiful smell and warmth of my caffeinated drink helps me to awaken. A well-used lawn chair draws my body toward the center of the earth. Grass having been scorched over the summer, the lawn is bare and brown readying itself for the colder months ahead by not growing any further. A book lying in my lap is taunting me. I never read up to the goal for the day. The pages, worn and frequently flipped through, were rough and torn.

The white paint on the wooden deck leaps to my attention, as a horde of ants sully the otherwise uncontaminated complexion. A growing garden was too much to hope for this year. We never did find the time to care. The mulch lay outside the deck railing with no more growth than that of the weeds. The chatting birds were always fed, but the garden never grew. Watering it shouldn’t have been that bothersome. A small voice in my head calls to me. It says, “You need to catch up with your work.” I can’t concentrate on my work. The reading is tiring. I have too much else to do. The garden still won’t be fed. The lawn can die too. The birds can stop chatting, and the dogs can stop yapping. Cars may stop meandering, but I may not be here to see it much longer. Tossing the book onto the railing, I enjoy the rest of my drink inside the house. The sun has fully risen, and the colors have faded down to that tranquil blue. The sofa, plush and black, waits for me as I press the blinking azure button one more time setting the mug beneath the nozzle. A painting stares back at me as I inadvertently gaze through it. Having a sepia toned image in the house lends itself to reminiscence. Although they are not yet old, my parents are empty nesting—in my case, again. The television monitor sitting cockeyed on the stand, it is tempting me to turn it on, but I have somewhere to be.

Taking a long whiff of my coffee, I relish in my singularity: my solitude. A buzzing sounds from within the kitchen. Gathering myself up from my seat, I sluggishly wander over to my phone.

“What do you want?”

Five missed phone calls, ten missed messages.

‘Mike where the hell are u?’

‘R u coming?’

‘Ur late.’

‘Hey u

yeah u

pick up your phone!’

‘Michael!!’

‘Are you even awake?’

‘OK, Mom’s taking me to work.’

‘I guess Ill see you later. . . .’

I knew I had somewhere to be. I gather, I’ll be buying flowers and taking them with me to pick her up. Maybe dinner too, she tends to enjoy Asian concoctions. I think sushi and some kind of fried rice may help some. Whatever happens, don’t forget the wonton soup. Wait, was it miso soup? It was some kind of un-American soup.

 
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Posted by on September 16, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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