Rooftop View

Gloria Santos turns a page of her book and adjusts herself in the overstuffed chair--the only thing she got in the divorce settlement, and only because her husband had always hated the color. She tucks her feet beside her. She is pleased that, at fifty-eight, she is still able to accomplish this small feat. She attributes it to her lifelong practice of yoga.

Her telephone rings. She signs and picks up, marking her place in her book with an index finger. "Hello, Howard."

"How did you know it was me?"

"Who else would bother calling me on Christmas?" Or ever, for that matter.

"Marie wants to know if you've changed your mind. I can pick you up."

"I'm fine."

"What are you doing?"

"Talking to you, at present, but prior to that I was reading my book. Curled up in the inglenook." She smiles, delighting in her brother's spare vocabulary. "It's a nook. By the library fireplace." Just to clarify: The condo she purchased (cash, of course, she'd told Howard) six months ago has four thousand square feet and three fireplaces. "Did the children have a good haul?"

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November 7, 2013

The wind blusters.

The clouds are gray.

I shiver in my coat,

     yank on my hat,

          wish I'd thought to bring a scarf.

The mittens I wear are mismatched

     pink and white

and belong to one

     (perhaps both)

of my daughters.

The dog,

     I notice,

          has chewed a hole

into one thumb.

I step into the woods,

     head for the creek.

The water has risen in the rain.

I toe across flat and mossy rocks

     carefully,

          tentatively,

               trying to keep my feet dry.

I pass the bridge.

     The owl's nest.

          The fallen tree.

               And emerge.

No fishermen are at the lake

     today: The icy wind has chased them away,

          empty bait containers,

               a forgotten lure

     the only evidence that

          they were here a day ago.

The pair of ducks is gone as well,

     the widening v they cut into the calm and

          still water ripped and rippled away by the wind.

The heron, too, has disappeared,

     the bird with two grey feathers missing

     from its left wing.

     Sentenced to flights

          short and low, his feet skirt the trees as he passes

overhead.

Today, I round the lake

     alone.

          Grateful for the sudden

          appearance of the sun that

               warms my back,

   

reminding me of

     hot mugs of tea

          and the soup I have

simmering on the stove,

     a mishmash of things left over,

unedited words

     strung together

          and stirred

               and bubbled

in hopes that they'll collaborate and decide to coalesce

     into something

          of meaning.

This was written for this week's Write at the Merge prompt: "The third day comes a killing frost." ~William Shakespeare

Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+