Wednesday, February 16, 2011

As it passes

Her eyes are open and empty, set apart from a wide forehead by eyebrows arched, it seems, in perpetual surprise. Her breathing is deep and slow, as if in slumber. She could almost be dead, oblivious to everything around her but for the sounds of life scratching, scraping, clanging in her head, through the ear that is pressed on the cold, hard floor. And what she couldn't see, even with her eyes wide open, she could hear.

The sound of her mother's voice, scathing; carrying over the murmur of a thousand different voices trapped in an unmapped realm.

The sound of her husband's footfalls-- loud, urgent but distant-- going farther and farther away in undisguised retreat.

The sound of her heartbeat pulsing through her breast, against the unyielding floor, coming back like blows, knocking the wind out of her.

The sound of ancestral whispers, the lessons of ages; the rasping, grating noise of prophets writing on the wall.

She is tired, breathless from a journey that covered many miles, spanned many years, without ever leaving that spot on the cold, hard floor.


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mental wayfarer said...

Thanks, Gege. I wish this "talent" would win me a contest. Preferably with a huge cash prize.:)

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