Samplers: Waiting for Neruda's Memoirs-2
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Today’s Sampler Treat: Waiting for Neruda’s Memoirs—Chapter 2
Amy stared out the window at her empty mailbox. A few frail flakes skitted in the rushing currents. Thirty-mile-an-hour wind gusts, the radio said. She watched her neighbor’s garbage can pick up speed as it rolled down the street.
I should be nice and go get that.
Then: a loud crashing noise from the back deck. She would have to break the vigil. More rumbling and tumbling sounds greeted her as she approached the back doors, mustering the ability to care. One quick peek through the glass, however, lent her the required urgency. As soon as she opened the door the wind plucked it from her fingers, slamming it against the condo’s siding.
Why didn’t I put this stuff in storage?
The deck furniture had taken flight. The umbrella—neatly rolled up and tied—had nevertheless served as sail to the patio table, and now the two hung like Siamese twins, dangling over the deck rail. When she stepped forward to rescue the twins, a chair came sliding toward her. She sidestepped, grabbed her attacker by the arms from behind and wrangled the thing through the door. Five more chairs and the set of twins later, Amy sat panting on her living room floor. Her slippers were soaking wet and the wind had cut cold straight through to her bones. She stared out the French doors at the snow falling down and burst into tears.
You’re never going to make it.
The watchers were back. After Steven left, the voices stopped for a time. Dr. Larinsky thought it was due to the new medication. Amy did too. And then winter came.
You’ll never make it on your own. You can’t even find a job. The money he gave you is about to run out. How will you pay for this place? How will you survive? You might as well give up now. Just do it. Quit. Quit this thing. There’s no use trying.
“Shut up!”
But they refused to be quiet—watching her every move, berating her every action and decision for the past ten years until she was curled up on the floor—a quivering, tearful mess. She must have fallen asleep, because when she opened her eyes it was dark outside. She straightened her body and let the cold of the wood floor melt through her PJs and into her skin. She listened to the wind continue its wreckage outside. The cold of the floor made her tingle, awakening forgotten nerve endings and calling them to move.
You’ll never make it.
She buried her face in her hands, heaved a sigh and tried to wipe it all away.
Just let that thought float by like a boat passing you on the river, Amy.
She took three deep breaths with her eyes closed and on the third exhale rose to her feet. She peered through the glass doors, flicked on the deck light, and surveyed the damage. All of her terra cotta pots had been tipped, little piles of dirt now swirling atop remnants of snow. The railing had been knocked loose by the weight of the table, and she would have to repaint the white boards that the splintering planters had gouged.
And her living room was full of deck furniture.
~
to be continued…
Featured photo by makelessnoise, Creative Commons, via Flickr. Gold foil photo by Isabella Fischer, and Gold Ribbon photo by freestocks, Creative Commons, via Unsplash.