CHANGE

Silent Lucidity

I fingered the spines of the hundreds of treasured books that lined my bookshelves. I read their titles in the dimness of an overhead dresser light. Hundreds and hundreds of books left behind by my eldest sister.  Titles that I had read over and over again as I languished in bed after my alarm had sounded on lazy weekend mornings.  As many times as I had read their titles and the names of the men and women who had written them, I had never ventured to read their pages.  That particular night, touched by a consciousness induced by equal parts love and palliative, I felt a peculiar sadness about the books that had remained untouched for so many years.  So, I stood in my barely lit bedroom with those books, while the boy I loved sat in the family room below in front of the flickering glimmer of the television.

 I would drive to his house on lazy days and sit on the gleaming wood floor of his peculiarly unfurnished bedroom as he plucked his acoustic guitar with care. In the summer he would be in shredded Banana Republic chinos with the rim of his boxers peeking out from his waistband. In the winter, it was the unscathed chinos with a flannel shirt. I would watch him love his music, and think of how it would feel to be loved like that, by him.

A song floated up to my bedroom from below…

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