Fly Away Home
Fly Away Home by Dave cenker
I swirl the glass of white wine and watch tiny bits of cork travel in circles on
the surface. It requires too much effort to dig out those fragmented pieces.
It’s the lie I tell myself, even if my damaged heart welcomes the unorthodox
A person shouldn’t feel such anxiety when visiting her childhood home. I
suppose I’m not like most thirty-eight-year-old women. I am alone. Raised by a
single mother and born out of wedlock, I know nothing about my father. Fierce
resistance met any inquiry into his whereabouts.
The physical bruises disappeared with time. It’s the deeper emotional scars
that remain a mainstay in my life. Doctors insist the cause of my mother’s death
was a heart attack. I suspect excessive alcohol consumption played a significant
role in her demise. The liquor cabinet disguised as a side table was like
Pandora’s box. Whenever I heard the latch close on that cupboard door, it
triggered an impulsive response. I prepared for what would soon follow.
Sometimes it was courtesy of a leather belt. If I was unlucky, it came from the
backside of a right hand that should have stroked my cheek, not slapped it.
I’m sorry for your loss, Claire. Time will heal you. That’s the recurring
message I heard from neighbors and guests after the funeral service. I wasn’t the
least bit sorry, nor was time healing a single thing. I put on a plausible facade,
but resentment overpowered my pretense of grieving. Ignoring the coldhearted
thoughts seething inside me was impossible, but I need not pretend any longer.
It’s now only me, a glass of wine, and a houseful of belongings to empty. If
only I could dispose of these painful and repressed memories with the same ease.
Why is it so hot in here? I suspect stress plays a role, alongside effects
from the alcohol I shouldn’t be drinking. I’m hypocritical for partaking
in libations at this moment, but I have no one here to chastise me.
As I stare at the ceiling, silence surrounds me. I push aside the despondent
memories of voiceless pleas from years ago. Instead, I focus on a problem that’s
fixable: a lack of airflow coming from the vent above me.
The overhead attic door in the hallway is easier to reach as a grown woman.
My bedroom chair isn’t necessary. I am at ease climbing the stairs. Out of habit I
conceal the creaks with each footstep. This was my shelter, a hiding place my
mother never discovered because I used it with such discreet care. My
destination today is the fuse box, to resolve one problem and hide from many
others. .............. Download Now to read more about " Fly Away Home " by Dave cenker
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