The International Writers Magazine: Dreamscapes of the heart
Roots, Red Heart
roots expose how little she can afford herself. She must keep up the
appearance of being happy at all costs and it may mean losing a lot
in the end.
Her heart literary. But for now be happy to know she is coping. A few
frayed edges but nothing too serious.
In a month though it will be a different matter. Black roots are taking
over, hair remains unstyled, dress stained where she dropped the melting
butter at lunch. The dog needs grooming, the kids need managing and
the mail is stuffed into a big brown envelope that she has shoved behind
the coach unopened. Dinners are late, bath times skipped and bedtimes
are whenever she notices you wandering around.
The neighbours are beginning to complain about garbage pick up being
missed, rats nesting in the yard have picked their house to infiltrate
and crows drop remnants all over the back lawn. She hangs up on them.
Mornings are the worst. She rises late, showers then gets everyone else
up. Bananas for breakfast, bagels with cream cheese thrown into brown
paper bags for lunches. Healthier than chocolate spread she reasons.
She pushes everyone out of the door, everything into the dishwasher
and then walks the dog to the corner and back. This week she still gets
to the grocery store, the library and the cleaners. Next week she will
just come home and go straight to bed until three when the kids arrive.
She is falling apart week by week and there is no one to stop her. She
will have a bag of chips for dinner in bed while the kids fight over
Cheezies and the converter and the dog howls to be let in. It all seems
Stop picture. She is at the corner waiting for the dog to finish its
business. "Crap" she thinks when out of the corner of her
eye she notices him. He stands across the street. She turns her back.
"Hi. Im your new neighbour. Mike. Mike Jones." He extends
She raises her eyebrows. "Dont care" she shrugs.
He continues as though she said nothing. "I live two doors down."
She turns to face him. His is handsome in a nine-to-five, stop the presses
sort of way.
"Im married," she growls at him.
"Thats nice," he causally responds.
"Is it?" she snaps.
"Isnt it?" he asks.
"Oh I dont know. When your husband leaves you for the weekend
with his best friend and you realize it was your best friend and they
have packed the safe and the skis and they are not coming back, is it?"
He moves back a step.
"Sorry," he quietly sighs.
"Yeah well Im still married," she hisses.
"Right," he smiles.
She turns away and runs home.
Fast-forward three weeks. Everyday for the last three weeks she has
been walking the dog to the corner. Each day she goes a little further
in her conversation.
Today she is dressed in pressed jeans, a clean top, her black roots
gone and her blonde hair drips like silken candle wax down her back.
Mike brings her daisies. She presses them in an old book. Today he has
a balloon. It is a red heart. She cant press that but it is thoughtful.
She is thankful.
© Bonnie Nish Feb 14th 2004
Bonnie runs The Twisted Poets open-mike night in Vancouver BC
A Poetic Nightmare
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