Hardin-Simmons University 2011 Corral student literary adn art publication
Issue link: http://eron0807.uberflip.com/i/117272
She knows because the room is so still, even with her in it. Honey, I���m home. When was the last time he said her name? He only sees her over the top of his wrinkled newspaper from last week. The print blurs from across the room, words smashed together like a train wreck she can���t stop staring at. It���s better than looking him in the eye. There are no words in this place, just the gentle chiming clock on the mantle piece he built that rainy afternoon. The old one was too fragile; it needed to be reinforced, but he decided to tear it down and build a new one. Out with the old, in with the new. Sometimes she misses the old wood, the smell of perfume, dried flowers buried in books, somewhere. She longs to whisper the secret, seeking advice. She���s Alice and Wonderland is terrifying. Her mind ran down the rabbit hole. The Cheshire Cat is no help here. Who are you? She doesn���t know anymore. Routine is her ally, cleaning dishes, the house, making dinners she can���t taste. Her coffee becomes stronger and stronger, nights alone in her kitchen, envying how the children stay asleep, buried in pillows and books and button-eyed stuffed animals. She still remembers innocence and wishes once more for kid-fears, for monsters under the bed. Fe fi fo fum. Her monster hides in the closet. The garden roses bloom, reds and whites so bright they burn. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. She kneels in the dirt, listening for the tires crunching gravel that says ���I���m home.��� But not really. She wipes the dirt off her clothes, says how happy she is to see him, twenty-five years lying between them. She will kiss him, pretend not to notice the stain on his collar, red like roses.