finally, maybe by E.M. Torrance
finally, maybe by E.M. Torrance feelings stories

emtorrance an aspiring author
Autoplay OFF   •   5 months ago
a different form of loss entirely

finally, maybe by E.M. Torrance

Sitting at the round table in my little old breakfast nook, I am holding my favorite mug.

A white one, yellowed with age and use and coffee, a simple plaid pattern around the rim,

and a single holly berry with two sharp twin leaves extending from it on the side opposite of the handle.

It is deliciously warm to the touch, full of fresh, sweetened coffee.

Before me on the sticky wooden table is my two prized possessions:

my sleek new typewriter, barely a word written with it yet, and my grandma's glittering crystal ashtray, fresh from the sink and ready for use.

I pull out a cigarette from my fuzzy red robe's pocket and use a cheap old lighter to ignite it.

I draw slowly from the cig, relishing in the mingle of coffee bean and tobacco scents, and exhale a breath of wispy smoke out the open bay window next to me.

Outside, the slightly chilly morning air spoked with rays of sunshine streaming through the trees, I rest my eyes on a familiar sight.

A grave.

It was a small thing, a tiny stone that I couldn't read from here, but it represented something huge.

A blood-soaked mattress between my blood-soaked thighs,

an empty, unused nursery,

a handpicked assortment of newborn clothes and toys collecting dust.

I know my hair must look a mess, and my bones are poking sharply through the knees of my soft pajamas.

My cheeks must look sallow; there must be red bags under my blue eyes that are turned gray and sullen by the loss of something that never came to be -

a different form of loss entirely.

But regardless, I am here,

and her little grave is beginning

to grow its own grass.

I finally washed my favorite mug and my grandma's ashtray today; it was hard work wiping away months of coffee grounds and ashes.

I finally opened the window today; "fresh air is good for you," my sweet old mother always chastises.

I finally pulled my typewriter out of its dusty box, as new as the day I bought it,

(mere days before she left my body)

and cleared my ugly old table of stacks of dirty dishes and newspapers so I could set it up.

And sure, maybe I still didn't shower today,

maybe I didn't scrub down the table to rid it of the built-up grime,

maybe I didn't wash the dishes I cleared from the table

or throw away the coffee-splotched newspapers since they were one of my only indication that time was still passing.

But I'm here, aren't I?

At least there's that, I think, and begin to type.

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