I know I'm late. In my battered car, I watch the second hand on my watch jump with every palpitation of my heart. The delicate metal of the second hand is trembling, as if it might get stuck. Mom doesn't like it when people are running late. It makes her usually patient nature run wild. A light is gleaming through the windows, yet nobody has bothered to look outside. They are probably busy. I cannot seem to convince myself to leave the car. Having to apologize will at least provide me with an opening line. For a moment I fear that I might have lost my voice. "Hello?" I hear myself asking. My voice sounds unfamiliar. Time seems to evaporate. In the rearview mirror I try to fix my hair, aware of how greasy it is. "Bazooka Joe" dad used to call me, when I would wear my hair with my bangs falling over one eye. Yet I have never found any resemblance between the reflection of the fragile young woman in the mirror and that chubby-cheeked little cartoon boy.
Showing posts from October, 2016
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Autumn has come. I see it in your icy eyes - you long for leaving. Summer's hazy heat has passed. Now, October's winds sadly sigh through golden trees. I knew one day you would go, but how was I to know it would be so soon? As the last russet leaves fall to the ungrateful ground, nostalgia haunts me like evanescent shadows cast by a waning moon. by Martha Magenta