(no subject)
A long last puff of air escaped his lips as he reached the summit of a very steep hill. Through the sparse and barren branches of trees rooted well below his vision, he could see the glimmer of a city. The lights seemed alive, dancing and pulsating against a purple-black sky. The boy sat down on a frozen granite bench, the toes of his boots tapping the hard earth beneath him. But it wasn’t the cityscape that deterred him, or even the cold air that seeped into his lungs and threatened to make them burst.
As he crept slowly up the hill, a house on the far end of the empty park grew ever larger in his view. Oddly shaped and dark, though its charcoal roof had been newly painted in white snow. In front of the house, a young tree bowed dangerously under the weight of a bulbous mound of more omnipresent snow. And while the boy had noticed all of this with vague disinterest, what still held his gaze were the two seeing eyes of the multi-storied home.
Through the window he could see only white walls. He angled this way and that, to no avail. Perhaps he could see a tip of blue in the bottom left pane of the right window. A propped up pillow, or a bit of fabric? he thought. His honey-brown eyes, dappled with green focused so intently on those windows that his mind wandered as it would for a boy at the edge of adulthood, but still ever so young.
Perhaps, he thought, this was the attic sewing room of an old woman who still lived in this family home. In her youth, the attic would’ve been the only logical place for her to sew, as all the other rooms were filled up with children, pets, noise and excitement. At the end of a long day, she would wipe her hands on the apron that seemed permanently round her able waist. As she climbed first one narrow staircase, and then another, she would shake down her straw colored waves which were normally held rigid in a braid. She would pause at the attic door, sighing away the day’s adventures and difficulties before secluding herself in a warm little nook before her sewing machine. She would first tidy up holes in shirtsleeves and pants, patching the knees of little boys’ pants, and letting out the bottom hem of not-so-little girls’ skirts. She would also hem the fraying edge of her neighbor’s table linen, and would then stand to both iron and fold it before returning it. Maybe she liked to cross-stitch, and would move from the sewing machine to a pillow-laden rocking chair where she would needle and thread her way expertly across the face of her next pillow, or one for her sister who lived only houses away. The night would deepen and shadow outside those two windows, but from her seat in the rocking chair, with a bright overhead light, and a warm lamp beside her, the day would stretch endlessly. On his way to bed, her husband would climb the extra flight and step only into the doorway of his wife’s oasis, smiling nostalgically at her. He didn’t see the tiny lines that crept into her eyes, or which lined her lips, though he knew he was directly their cause. When she finally would lift her face to him, he would only see the young girl who rode on the handle bars of his bike, screeching in fear, and later, the woman who had to press her face into his chest when he made her laugh so hard she almost screamed with joy. Putting down her stitching, she would tip her head, not knowing why he gazed at her so, and stand stiffly. His thoughts would return to the present as she slipped her fingers through his and led him out of the room and down the stairs.
Later on the room would have evolved. As her children grew, she would do less and less repairs for their clothes, not because they stopped ripping, but because her work was no longer acceptable to their discerning tastes. She didn’t spend every night in the attic any more because she had taken to helping her husband finish the daily crossword puzzle from the newspaper. And although she didn’t like to admit it, the stairs were increasingly hard to mount by the second set. She would never know it, but the lights in the attic had become a beacon on the street, many neighbors looked out to find those comforting eyes at night, especially in the desperate frigidity of late winter. During these years of infrequent attic visits, the neighborhood changed, bringing new families with small children in, and ushering out the older couples with empty nests.
This woman would never leave, the boy resolved. Over the past 48 years the house had become as much a part of the woman as her arms, legs, or sewing needle. Even now, with her husband but a memory she clung to with longing, and her arthritis such that she had to take frequent breaks on her journeys up and down the stairs, she had once again taken to the attic room at night. She sat in the same old rocking chair, no longer cross-stitching because of her knobby fingers that lacked precision, but knitting slowly. She would knit gifts for her grandchildren who seemed to be growing infinitely faster than her own children had, and thick socks for herself, since her feet grew quite cold at night anymore. The attic lights shone happily with her return, though everything seemed dimmer with her ailing eyesight. She was a happy woman, not lost in her own pain or loss, but pleased with what she did have and the closeness of her remaining family. As she rocked peacefully in the sewing room, she looked up at family photos that filled her walls.
The boy shook his head, his glazed eyes returning to his present situation, which was cold and very tired. He stood up, unable to feel his numbed backside, and found his way out of the park and onto the sidewalk. With one last glance at the shining eyes of this dark and worn house, he made his way home. As he passed the slumping tree he pushed the snow off, thinking happily that it would now make it to spring because of his help. Keys in hand, he unlocked his own front door and stepped inside the long dark hall. Down the stairs clattered the only other conscious companion in the house, his small grey terrier who bounced and yapped and tried desperately to lick his friend’s face. The boy didn’t bother turning any lights on before he went upstairs to his bedroom. He dropped his coat on the floor and pulled his sweatshirt off over his head, and tossed back the thick comforter on his bed. The terrier leaped into the covers, sniffing and circling as he excavated a site to sleep. The boy kicked his shoes off and told the dog he would be right back. His mother wasn’t asleep in her room, and his dad wouldn’t be home for two more weeks, so he knew where he could find her. Through a narrow darkened hall, he proceeded up stairs lit only by the room at the top.
As he crept slowly up the hill, a house on the far end of the empty park grew ever larger in his view. Oddly shaped and dark, though its charcoal roof had been newly painted in white snow. In front of the house, a young tree bowed dangerously under the weight of a bulbous mound of more omnipresent snow. And while the boy had noticed all of this with vague disinterest, what still held his gaze were the two seeing eyes of the multi-storied home.
Through the window he could see only white walls. He angled this way and that, to no avail. Perhaps he could see a tip of blue in the bottom left pane of the right window. A propped up pillow, or a bit of fabric? he thought. His honey-brown eyes, dappled with green focused so intently on those windows that his mind wandered as it would for a boy at the edge of adulthood, but still ever so young.
Perhaps, he thought, this was the attic sewing room of an old woman who still lived in this family home. In her youth, the attic would’ve been the only logical place for her to sew, as all the other rooms were filled up with children, pets, noise and excitement. At the end of a long day, she would wipe her hands on the apron that seemed permanently round her able waist. As she climbed first one narrow staircase, and then another, she would shake down her straw colored waves which were normally held rigid in a braid. She would pause at the attic door, sighing away the day’s adventures and difficulties before secluding herself in a warm little nook before her sewing machine. She would first tidy up holes in shirtsleeves and pants, patching the knees of little boys’ pants, and letting out the bottom hem of not-so-little girls’ skirts. She would also hem the fraying edge of her neighbor’s table linen, and would then stand to both iron and fold it before returning it. Maybe she liked to cross-stitch, and would move from the sewing machine to a pillow-laden rocking chair where she would needle and thread her way expertly across the face of her next pillow, or one for her sister who lived only houses away. The night would deepen and shadow outside those two windows, but from her seat in the rocking chair, with a bright overhead light, and a warm lamp beside her, the day would stretch endlessly. On his way to bed, her husband would climb the extra flight and step only into the doorway of his wife’s oasis, smiling nostalgically at her. He didn’t see the tiny lines that crept into her eyes, or which lined her lips, though he knew he was directly their cause. When she finally would lift her face to him, he would only see the young girl who rode on the handle bars of his bike, screeching in fear, and later, the woman who had to press her face into his chest when he made her laugh so hard she almost screamed with joy. Putting down her stitching, she would tip her head, not knowing why he gazed at her so, and stand stiffly. His thoughts would return to the present as she slipped her fingers through his and led him out of the room and down the stairs.
Later on the room would have evolved. As her children grew, she would do less and less repairs for their clothes, not because they stopped ripping, but because her work was no longer acceptable to their discerning tastes. She didn’t spend every night in the attic any more because she had taken to helping her husband finish the daily crossword puzzle from the newspaper. And although she didn’t like to admit it, the stairs were increasingly hard to mount by the second set. She would never know it, but the lights in the attic had become a beacon on the street, many neighbors looked out to find those comforting eyes at night, especially in the desperate frigidity of late winter. During these years of infrequent attic visits, the neighborhood changed, bringing new families with small children in, and ushering out the older couples with empty nests.
This woman would never leave, the boy resolved. Over the past 48 years the house had become as much a part of the woman as her arms, legs, or sewing needle. Even now, with her husband but a memory she clung to with longing, and her arthritis such that she had to take frequent breaks on her journeys up and down the stairs, she had once again taken to the attic room at night. She sat in the same old rocking chair, no longer cross-stitching because of her knobby fingers that lacked precision, but knitting slowly. She would knit gifts for her grandchildren who seemed to be growing infinitely faster than her own children had, and thick socks for herself, since her feet grew quite cold at night anymore. The attic lights shone happily with her return, though everything seemed dimmer with her ailing eyesight. She was a happy woman, not lost in her own pain or loss, but pleased with what she did have and the closeness of her remaining family. As she rocked peacefully in the sewing room, she looked up at family photos that filled her walls.
The boy shook his head, his glazed eyes returning to his present situation, which was cold and very tired. He stood up, unable to feel his numbed backside, and found his way out of the park and onto the sidewalk. With one last glance at the shining eyes of this dark and worn house, he made his way home. As he passed the slumping tree he pushed the snow off, thinking happily that it would now make it to spring because of his help. Keys in hand, he unlocked his own front door and stepped inside the long dark hall. Down the stairs clattered the only other conscious companion in the house, his small grey terrier who bounced and yapped and tried desperately to lick his friend’s face. The boy didn’t bother turning any lights on before he went upstairs to his bedroom. He dropped his coat on the floor and pulled his sweatshirt off over his head, and tossed back the thick comforter on his bed. The terrier leaped into the covers, sniffing and circling as he excavated a site to sleep. The boy kicked his shoes off and told the dog he would be right back. His mother wasn’t asleep in her room, and his dad wouldn’t be home for two more weeks, so he knew where he could find her. Through a narrow darkened hall, he proceeded up stairs lit only by the room at the top.